Alliance
by I-AM-SiriusLOCKED
Summary: I volunteered for the Sixtieth Hunger Games with one goal in mind: to lose. My name is Denna Lazuli, and this is my story of how hard it is to die.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER The Hunger Games and any characters, names, places etc you recognise are Collins/Lionsgate's, not mine.**

_"Oh, you weak, beautiful people who give up with such grace."_

_Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Tennessee Williams_

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Familiar words, here in District One. But nobody was expecting them to come out of my mouth - there's a system, you see, a rigorous selection process that finally selects the year's volunteers after months of examination and a lifetime of training. The chosen volunteer is always, _always _the best. Except now, of course - now, a girl about two years too young, a relatively plain girl who has never achieved anything above a good average, has stuck her hand up. And, thrillingly, nobody can do anything about that.

Fortunately, the aforementioned pomp and ceremony that has arisen around volunteering means I have got in before anyone else can. A Peacekeeper, his uniform blinding in the sunlight, drags me out from the crowd by the arm. I wrench it out of his grasp and walk up to the podium, head held high so I can avoid catching anybody's eye, as I know they will all be glaring at me.

_Good for them, _I think with as much arrogance as you'd expect from your typical One tribute. It's a struggle to remain calm enough to think it.

I climb up the steps to One's escort this year, a man with flowers tattooed on his frozen face. I can't even remember his name, and feel a jab of irrational guilt because of it.

"Ooh, a young one!" he says. He might be smiling at me, because his skin tautens slightly, but I can't be sure. We're lucky here in District 1, where the Capitolites pity and fawn over us instead of being as disgusted as they are with some of the other districts. "What's your name, child?"

"Denna Lazuli," I tell him. My voice echoes out around the square and comes back to me, sounding juvenile and frail.

"Well, Denna, if you go stand over there while I draw the other tribute." His voice is patronising, because I'm two years younger than the usual Career. He clearly doesn't think I'm going to last a day. I'm not entirely confident that I will, either. But I can't let the fear show.

I try to picture what the citizens of District One are currently seeing, and envisage a tall, lean girl with my mother's round face framed by scraggly hair. Green eyes that are the norm in One. My mother was supposedly attractive- at least, enough for the wealthy of District One to pay for her company in bed- but I blend into the background. Until now, that is.

I glance back at those who are to be my mentors, and receive filthy looks. I have messed up their plans, for sure, and I smother a smile as I turn to face the front to watch my male counterpart volunteer- an eighteen year old called Gleam. I don't bother to remember his surname, and I doubt he will mine.

We perform the necessary handshake, and since there is nobody with any compulsion to visit me I am immediately ushered into a car (no last goodbyes from loved ones for me, it seems) that will take us the short distance to the train station. I'm grateful for the lack of farewells, since if I did have any emotional ties to break I would probably still be crying as we entered the Capitol. As we drive, I have to remind myself why I volunteered, because everything has suddenly become very real.

_The Hunger Games are unfair. Careers are illegal, and yet carry on training because their bonds with the Capitol are so strong. I can't hope to take on the Capitol myself, so disturbing the Careers' alliances is the very least I can do. _That's not all, though. _And the best way to do that? Give my life to let one of the poorer districts win._

That would be an extraordinary kick in the face to the Capitol. Careers allying themselves with tributes from the outlying districts are rare enough, but even then they are only to exploit their skills to make it easier for them to win. But this? If my plan- if you can call it that- works, the Capitol will be in uproar. I will be more valuable dead than I have ever been alive.

I smile, grimly. Gleam is sitting opposite to me, staring out of the car window. I can see his face reflected in the glass, though, and he looks furious. It appears I have already made myself an enemy- I wonder how long he will wait before killing me in the arena. The thought makes my heart race with adrenaline- the thrill only a Career tribute knows.

The car pulls to a halt outside a silvery train carriage, and our mentors usher Gleam out, completely ignoring me. I climb out after him, and slip into the carriage before anybody can stop me. It's clear nobody wants me to win, so hopefully the most damaging thing my mentors can do is just ignore me. I don't think the Capitol would let them injure me before the Games actually begin.

The décor inside the cart is beautiful- I recognise the skilled hands of District One in the furniture, the artwork, and the ornaments. Exquisitely prepared food is laid out on the table, so I help myself to a mug of coffee and a hot bread roll before making my way to a squishy armchair in the corner, by the window. Landscape flies past, but I feel almost nothing save for a slight vibration. It's quite relaxing, and I cheerfully ignore the glares coming from my co travellers.

As One disappears behind rolling scenery, I realise that yes, I am excited to leave it. I have no family or friends worth staying for- my lack of farewells proved that- and now, finally, I can achieve my true purpose. It's not like I'm a good enough fighter, and _certainly _not a good enough strategist, to survive this anyway. My death will be worth something, I will ensure that.

Because my district is so close to the Capitol, it only takes us a few hours to reach the centre of Panem. As we prepare to dismount, I see our escort, the one who accepted my volunteering, give me a funny look. I would have described it as calculating, but he doesn't nearly look clever enough. Ignoring him, I walk quickly into the Training Centre.

District Twelve arrives the same time as us. They both must be a couple of years younger than me, but it looks more to that due to their shrunken, skeletal frames. Their coal-coloured hair hangs in lank clumps over their bony faces, and their gray eyes flit around the lobby, obviously amazed.

Their mentor seems nowhere near as impressed- but of course, he must be used to all the extravagance by now. Haymitch Abernathy won ten years ago, during the Quarter Quell, when he was a little younger than I am now. He's only nine years older than me, but the gap seems larger when I see him snatch a bottle of whisky from a side table, and drink a sizeable amount of it in one. He's quite good looking, I have to admit, but the dark circles under his eyes and slightly yellow skin mark years of hard drinking that instantly mark him out as dangerous, a potential weakness.

A habit picked up from years of training means that I see almost everyone as either a potential threat or potential ally. I wish I could look at Haymitch without wondering what benefit he could have to my half-formed plan.

"Hurry up," he mutters to his tributes, casting a dark look around the lobby before hurrying them to the elevator. Their escort is nowhere to be seen. Before the doors of the elevator can close, I dart in after them, and press the 1 button.

"What are you doing in here?" barks Haymitch.

"The atmosphere is slightly warmer than if I were to be with my own district," I tell him. The girl tribute laughs weakly, and flash her a quick smile. On closer inspection, I think she might be the same age as me.

Haymitch glares at me, and I hold his gaze defiantly until the elevator halts and the doors slide open. It's a stalemate, I think. Maybe the drink hasn't ruined him after all. "Thanks for the lift," I tell him, walking out.

"You're welcome," he calls after me, after a pause.

**A/N WELCOME TO THE TRASH FIC. I hope you like it, please follow/fav/review and all those lovely things if you do!**


	2. Chapter 2

"Remember," the trainer tells me as we circle each other on the wrestling mats in the Training Centre, "this isn't like back in One, you can tap out."

I nod. Back in Career training, we fought until someone was out cold or, occasionally, dead. "Don't go easy on me," I reply, raising my fists.

My forte is small weapons, suited to my narrow frame. Throwing knives and long-distance weapons I am only mediocre at, I can barely lift the big stuff like swords and spears, and although I prefer hand-to-hand combat I know I'm too reliant on my weapons, which I could lose all too easily in the arena. So I'm working on being unarmed and in close quarters with a foe, for now, until a certain couple of districts turn up.

"Engage!" The mediator snaps, and I dart forward, swerving to the right at the last minute and jumping, using my falling weight as extra force as I bring my elbow down on his neck.

He swerves so our only contact is a quick brush, meaning there's nothing to break my fall and I slam onto my back with all the breath knocked out of me. A fist flies down at my head and I roll backwards, kick up onto my hands and wrap my thighs around his neck, then yank him over the top of me so he lands on his hands and knees. I release him, dropping onto my front, then spin over and kick upwards, catching him in the jaw.

His head snaps backwards and I take the opportunity to get my breath back, which is a mistake- I should have kept attacking, because now we're both back on our feet and despite that his world must now be spinning it's now his turn to be on the offensive; he tackles me with a lunge to my midriff and of course I simply don't have the mass, let alone the strength, to stop him flinging me onto the floor again. I roll, avoiding the stamps he's trying to land on me, and try to think.

Heavy hits. Ruthless technique. Takes advantage of that he's bigger than me. Not trying to make visible damage (he would have guessed a Career to be too fast for him to land a punch to the face). So heavy, simple, and restrained. I am light, my moves are fancy so as to impress the viewers and I have no reason to worry about hurting him.

My foot connects with his knee, jolting it in the wrong direction and he stumbles with a grunt of pain, a stumble which allows me to get behind his defences and drive my own knee deep into his stomach, then hammerfisting the top of his head and turning, intending to get him out cold with a jump-spin kick to the head. But as soon as my back is to him an arm wraps around my throat and the world is suddenly devoid of air, lifting me off the ground as I struggle to breathe...

"Tap out already, girl!" he hisses, as my eyes water furiously. But no, I will not be able to tap out in the Games themselves.

So I sink my teeth into his forearm, tasting flesh and sinew and blood.

He howls and releases me to grab at the wound which allows me to collapse forward, gasping for air and gagging as I try to get the blood out of my mouth at the same time.

"Sorry," I groan, standing back up and wiping my mouth. "Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry. I panicked."

He waves his uninjured hand. "It worked," he says weakly, "but it won't every time. They might be wearing plating on their arm, or just have too much adrenaline to feel the pain. Your defensive needs work, and I know it's too late to build up your strength now, but being light and fast isn't a guarantee of your safety. You have to be adaptable, kid. And don't bloody panic."

"Uh huh," I say, trying not to gag. I glance around and see the girl from Two, who is big and bulky, watching me with a disdainful look. I'm not the smartest of people, but I know that expression is not the one of a potential ally.

"Go and get a drink, we'll leave it there for today."

I do as he says, grabbing a bottle of water from the ice box, gargling it and spitting out the mouthful into a plant pot before grabbing some of the ice cubes and pressing them to my flushed, sweaty skin. Once my fingers stop twitching I retie my now-greasy hair and make my way over to the trap-setting station. Both the tributes from Twelve and Eleven are here, skeletal fingers fumbling over the complex knots. I kneel down silently between the two girls, picking up a piece of leather cord.

"One of you lot had better show me how to do this," I tell them, brushing a shaft of dark hair from my eyes, "because I haven't got a clue."

The Twelve girl smiles at me, and deftly shows how to loop the string around a branch. "I don't suppose you learn how to do stuff like this, in One."

"Not really. But you do?"

"The knots, yes- for working in the mines. But not snares, because hunting is illegal."

"Of course it is." I glance up at the instructor, who is talking to the woman from the scavenging stand and not paying them any attention. "Except for when you're hunting people. What's your name?"

"Cossie," mumbles the girl, dropping the knot. "This is my cousin, Jed." She waves at the Twelve boy, who has her olive skin and gray eyes, who flashes me a grin.

"What about you two?" I ask Eleven.

"Ash," replies the surly-looking guy, who looks about my age. "Willow-" he jerks his head to a slim and dainty, dark-skinned girl curled up next to him, who looks as if one touch might snap her in two. She waves shyly.

None of them look properly fed, or even cared for at all. They have the weary, hardened look in their eyes that doesn't belong in those of people twice, three times their age, let alone their own. I may have been neglected back in One, but it is nothing compared to what they have suffered.

"My name is Denna," I tell them, finishing off the snare. "And I want to help you win."

%

Back in One's beautiful Training Centre apartment, our plastic mentors are announcing who wants us as allies.

"Denna," the man says, turning to me with a curled lip. "Eleven and Twelve. Good luck with that." Gleam sniggers, and I raise my chin and ignore him. He appears to be heading the Career pack.

"Abernathy, Twelve's mentor, is waiting for you in the lobby to talk to you about this," the man continues. "He doesn't trust you. Does anybody?"

I stand up and walk out to the elevator, ignoring the people in the room I am leaving behind. The ride is smooth, and when the doors slide open, Haymitch Abernathy strides towards me, liquor sloshing over the rim of his bottle as he shoves me back inside and pushes the button for the roof. He is silent as we ascend, drinking moodily every now and then. I watch him, not daring to move or speak until the elevator opens again onto a beautiful rooftop garden with wind chimes tinkling in the wind.

"What the _hell,_" he demands, "do you think you're doing? You think those poor kids don't have enough to deal with, without you messing them around?"

"I'm not!" I reply calmly, defending myself for the first time since I got here. "They need this victory, their _Districts _need this victory, more than I do."

"And you'll die- you'll kill yourself- for that?"

"I can't remember the last time I cared what happens to me. But I do care that they have a chance, and I care that an outlying district winning again, with a One girl helping, will be a kick in the face to our new President Snow."

Abernathy glares at me for a minute, trying to figure out if I mean what I said. "Fine," he says shortly, "but try a little humility when you get to interviews."

"Huh?"

"Nobody likes a selfless hero. And self-preservation might be a good idea if you want to keep them alive as well, so try to give a damn about your own life at least until half the others are dead in the Arena."

I shrug. "That," I reply slowly, "was strangely motivating."

He laughs humourlessly. "Darling, you should see me when I try."

"So you'll let me be an ally with your tributes?"

He raised a hand to his face as he thought. "You sure about this, kid?"

"I want to die," I say, "and if I can piss off the Capitol by doing so, then so much the better. And if that means I need to help you... then here I am." I hold out my arms to display the whole, unimpressive sight of me. "Well?"

He laughs again and shakes his head, lifting the bottle for another mouthful. "You're delusional if you think you all stand a chance, but sure, why not?"

"What about Eleven?"

"Chaff, their mentor, is an old friend. I'll talk him round."

I nod. "Thank you."

"Stop," he shoots at me as he as he sucks the dregs from his bottle, "stop being so proud of how self-righteous you are. It's annoying."

"I'm not self-righteous," I snap back at him, and he snorts.

"Sure you're not. Listen, kid, once you're in the arena you'll be putting your sorry ass first, just like everyone else."

"You don't know that."

"Don't I?" he raises an eyebrow. "How else do you think I won?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N short chapter, sorry. But hey, the Games begin in the next one! LET THE MURDER COMMENCE!**

I walk out of the elevator onto the roof, the night before the Games. My score in training was good- a nine, one above what I was predicted back in training. Gleam got eleven, as did the girl from Four, but apart from that I have the same score as the Careers. Although it means I will get more sponsors, I am worried about my number; it has made me, and therefore my allies, a target.

It had been a long couple of days, ostracized by my own District, learning how to survive in a place without necessities, let alone luxury. Chaff, the Eleven mentor, was funny and light-hearted, bring some much-needed relief to my somber mood, but Abernathy had been bitter and surly, talking only when needed, usually finishing with some form of sarcastic comment. I still worry, though; every knot I learn is time I could be spent learning to defend myself, to win these Games.

_It's too late now_, I remind myself, walking to the railing and curling my fingers around the cool metal bar.

"Trouble sleeping?"

I jump, and spin round to see Abernathy standing by the door, arms folded. "You should've heard me," he says. "Always be aware of your surroundings."

"Thanks for the tip," I mutter, turning back to look over the Capitol skyline. He stands beside me. "And do you really expect me to sleep tonight?"

"You'll need it if you want to survive past the first bloodbath in the arena tomor-"

"Alright!" I fling my arms into the air. "Fine! Stop talking about it!"

He raises an eyebrow. "Talking about what?"

I glare at him. "Shut up." He laughs at me, and I can't help but smile. "You know, I'm actually starting to have second thoughts about this suicide mission."

"Oh really?" I go to punch him on the shoulder, but he twists out of the way. Clearly the drink hasn't dulled his reflexes completely- yet. "Be careful in there, Lazuli."

"That was the plan."

"Yeah, but if your allies do die before you, don't throw your life away because of it."

"Why? It's not like I have anything left to live for."

"Don't," he says sharply. "I want you out of there alive as much as I do my own tributes."

"Why? What the hell do I mean to you?" I ask, voice rising. He stays silent, and the anger slowly flows away. "Sorry," I murmur. Of course he's grown attached, not because I am a particularly pleasant person but because it's impossible not to want a child to survive this thing, especially one you've been forced to spend time with.

"Don't be." He wraps his arms around me and I lean my head on his shoulder. He must have just showered; he smells faintly of roses, instead of the acrid sting of white liquor, and although it seems a little forced, a little out of character for him, I am grateful for the affection.

"Don't mess this up, girl," he whispers in my ear.


	4. Chapter 4

My mind is racing at many times its normal speed as I rise through the tube into the harsh sunlight of the Arena. My clothes intrigue me; loose, grey, with hard protective covering for my hands, knees and elbows. The boots are tough, but too new to be comfortable- I roll my toes around in them, trying to mould them to my feet. Then my eyeline breaks the surface, and I am momentarily blinded before my eyes adjust to the unfiltered white glow.

_Mountain_, is my first thought, as I stare up at the sheer wall of rock, its grey stone broken up by hardy tufts of grass. Then I realise, despite its impressive height, it's not tall enough to be a mountain; a few hundred feet high, it eventually plateaus onto a wide horizontal peak, almost the same size as its base. The peak is like Eden in this tiny arena; it has bushes, shady trees and in the center, a shimmering Cornucopia.

_This is good news_, I tell myself. Once I've got some supplies, I can make sure my allies are well hidden in one of the many caves I can see on the cliff face. I glance to my left; luckily, Cossie from Twelve is there, with Ash to my right. With our first stationary moment ticking down as we stand on our platforms, I nod to them. They return the gesture, showing they remember the plan.

A cannon blasts and suddenly everyone is off, most (including Ash, the Careers and myself) running to the cliff, and beginning to scramble up it, rock crumbling away at our fingers. Cossie, meanwhile, runs to fetch Jed and Willow, taking them to the most hidden place she can find along the base of the cliff.

My muscles strain as I pull myself up ledges and outcrops, but it is not too difficult- I've been training for this for over ten years. It's lucky that Ash has spent his whole life climbing up trees, too- we are fast and agile, finding a route without too many false steps and reaching the top just behind a boy from District Three. He turns to grab his female counterpart, their grazed fingers linking, but they are both slick with sweat and the girl plummets backwards with a scream. I grit my teeth and try to ignore the sounds of bone cracking against rock.

We both run past the boy and grab what Abernathy told us to- not food in itself, but things to help us find it. String and rope, matches, hooks of varying sizes, iodine for purifying water- Ash grabs a crossbow, commonly used in Eleven for bringing down groosling, while I go for a pair of wicked looking daggers and a couple of serrated hunting knives. I seize weapons for the others, too- a couple of scimitars and a long-handled something I recognise vaguely for being used in coal mines. There's some apples and dried beef in front of me- I grab them and tie the bags to the belt around my waist, which is when I feel someone breathing down my neck.

I turn without thinking, my muscle memory doing it for me, grab one of the daggers and ram it through their cheek. The Two girl tries to yell out, but chokes on her own blood as I pull the knife out, leaving a jagged hole in the side of her face. She pulls a sword out of her belt and swipes it round, but I duck down and punch the side of her knee and she falls to the floor. Her sword swings again and opens up my calf; I swear and pin her hand to the ground with my knife, leave her there and run to Ash, who has just sent a crossbow bolt through the midriff of the boy from Four. I worry about the knife I left behind, but remind myself I have another spare, and the daggers designed for combat. And at least the girl is still alive- I am not yet a killer- and has been put out of fighting for at least a few days.

"Ready?" asks Ash, breathing heavily and loading another crossbow bolt. I nod. "Good. Duck."

It's a good thing I trust him- as I plunge to the floor the arrow whistles over my head and lands with a sickening squelch in someone behind me. I roll over to see who it was- the Eight boy lies motionless and open-mouthed on the grass, a feathery shaft sticking out of his eye.

"Quick," I tell Ash, "before the other Careers notice us."

"You don't want to claim here?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"And fight the rest of One, Two and Four for it? Not likely."

I swing myself over the edge of the cliff face and drop onto a greenish ledge ten feet below, rolling to minimize the jarring impact. Ash lands beside me and we continue this all the way down, silently so as to avoid any other tributes.

We walk- well, I limp- along the base of the cliff, until we find Willow, Cossie and Jed sat in the shadow of a large boulder.

"Happy birthday," I tell them, as Ash and I throw down the food, supplies and other weapons. "Any of you know first aid?" I can feel blood trickling down my skin, and know it is only a matter of time before my leg gives way. I sit on the floor, to save the embarrassment of collapsing, and Cossie grabs some bandages from a pack Ash grabs and starts unrolling them.

"It looks clean," she tells me, "I'll just compress it until we get somewhere safer."

We all pause as the first cannonfire rings through the sky. It's followed by another, then another, then more- I count nine in all. Almost half of us, just fifteen left. There's a moment of chilling silence; none of us know what to say for a moment.

"Speaking of safety," Jed chips in, breaking the silence as he leans against the boulder casually like for all the world he was on some kind of vacation, "where are we setting up camp?"

"We'll walk until it starts getting dark around this cliff, then get into the first cave we can find." And that's what we did. I never intended to become the leader of this Alliance, but they all follow my judgement without comment, and so we traipse along the towering rock wall, filling some bottles with water from a tiny trickling waterfall and nibbling on dried beef to keep our energy levels high. As the clear blue sky melts into a dusky orange, we halt and stare at the wall.

"How high up are we going?" asks Willow, almost too quietly to be heard. Her voice is shaking slightly, and Ash wraps his arm around her protectively.

"Don't worry little girl, not too high," he reassures her, while glancing over at me. I nod, but something about this confuses me.

"You're afraid of heights?" I ask Willow. "Don't you work in orchard trees?"

"Not heights," she mumbles, looking up, "them."

I can see the familiar silhouette of Gleam standing at the edge of the peak, which I've started thinking of as Eden. He cuts an impressive figure- I'm used to, even tired of it, but I can understand it scaring the timid Eleven girl. After all, he's our biggest threat.

_Why don't I care? _I wonder.

"There's a cave there," I announce, pointing up to a fissure in the rock wall, about twenty feet up. You can only see it from this angle, but it looks ideal- a small flat area of grass to one side, and another waterfall to the other, like a glistening snail trail.

Ash, the strongest, climbs up first- he takes the rope with him and ties it to a stone, making sure its securely attached, before throwing a looped end down to us. I let the others go up first, then tie myself into the harness and start to climb, bad leg shaking madly. Before I manage to get even a foot off the ground, however, I feel the rope being yanked up as I am pulled to our new base.

"What was that for?" I ask, scrambling into the cave. Cossie immediately runs over with some medical stuff, untying my bandage to check the cut.

"Figured we owe you," shrugged Ash. Jed rolled his granite-coloured eyes.

"_You _didn't figure. I did. Clearly I'm gonna have to be the brains of this little team, while you supply the brawn."

"I can't help but laugh. "What does that make the rest of us, then?"

"Medic," he waves at Cossie as she smears stinging yellow paste on my wound, "Supplies-" he indicates to Willow in the corner, who is arranging our rations and equipment into piles, and counting through it. He looks at me, thinks for a moment and says- "Special Ops. You can go and do the stuff nobody else wants to. Or is that dogsbody?"

"Thanks," I reply dryly, as Willow giggles. Suddenly, the Panem anthem echoes from outside, and we all shift to the cave entrance to look up at the shimmering hologram handing in the twilit sky.

The first is the girl I saw plummet to her death, followed by her fellow District Three tribute, and the boy from Four who Ash skewered with his crossbow. That means all but one of the Careers are alive, and presumably settling down in Eden, with the majority of supplies and the best camp. As I think this, more people flash up- both from Five, the Six girl, the boy and girl from Eight (the latter of which had been another victim of Ash's deadly aim), and the boy from Nine. No eulogies, no mourning- just their picture, taken by the Capitol. I can feel a familiar anger bubbling up inside me, but choose to ignore it. "All present and correct?"

They all nod, except for Jed, who salutes mockingly.

"Good." I flex my calf muscles, feel them tauten under my new bandage. "Sleep. Tomorrow we hunt."

"Shouldn't one of us keep watch?" Ash asks me, slowly.

"Oh, right," I run my hand through my hair, dislodging it from my ponytail. "Shall I-"

"Sleep, girlie," the dark-skinned Eleven tribute tells me, shifting to sit at the entrance of the cave. "I'll wake you after midnight, when you've had some sleep."

"How will you tell the time?" I ask him. He rolls his eyes.

"Stars, moron," he replies. I look at him blankly. "Wow, you really have no clue. Remind me to teach you someday." He turns to look outwards, leaning against the wall, silent and unmoving. I consider him for a minute, then lie down, falling asleep almost immediately.


	5. Chapter 5

It's about half an hour after dawn breaks that Jed stirs, the first to do so. He comes to sit next to me.

"What's the plan for today then, Dogsbody?" he asks.

I roll my eyes at the new nickname. "Hunt."

On our walk to camp yesterday, we had seen a flock of groosling flying overhead, as well as a couple of skinny-looking goats hopping across the cliff. I've decided we'd be better off going for the former, since Ash and Willow know how to hunt them, and the meat on a goat apparently isn't very good.

"Eleven can pair up and go shoot down some groosling," I tell him. "I'll go forage with you and Cossie, set up some snares along the bushes."

"Do you actually know _how _to make a snare?"

"I have… a vague idea," I reply, hazily recalling what I had learnt in the arena. "Besides, there has to be berries or something."

"As long as they're not poisonous."

"Optimism is key here, Twelve," I tell him, and his laugh wakes up the others.

We split up after a hearty breakfast of apples and more apples, heading opposite ways along the base of the cliff after agreeing not to lose sight of base camp. I hold one of my daggers loosely in my hand- just a precaution, as I keep Jed and Cossie in front of me, reminding them every so often to keep their voices down. The other dagger is strapped to my bag and the hunting knife is stuck in my belt. Cossie is the first to find something- a bush with boughs bent from the weight of its raspberries. We fill a bag with them and gorge ourselves, before searching the ground floor for dry wood. It got cool last night, too cool for comfort, and Ash and I had forgotten to grab sleeping bags. Instead, everyone had huddled together in the centre of the cave, a twisted mass of shared body warmth. As much of a bonding experience that was, a fire would be good to have, as well as allowing us to cook whatever groosling Ash and Willow catch.

We've all got armfuls of tinder when I first hear the voices, loud, clear and laughing. There's only one group of people who could be that happy in the Arena, and my heart stops.

"Careers!" I whisper to Twelve, and drag them into the shadow of the trees that fringe this part of the cliff bottom.

Gleam walks first, with a wicked looking blade strapped to his back. He saunters around the area we had just been, arms opened wide. He's followed by the boy from Two, who is tall and lanky with an attractive face marred by what appears to be a permanent scowl. The Two girl surprises me by her presence- she has a bandage wrapped around her entire lower face, covering her mouth, which she doesn't look very happy about. I can't deny, this amuses me somewhat. The pretty, sandy-haired Four girl takes up the rear, muscles standing out in her arms as she drags something I can't quite see. Then Cossie's hand grips mine as she drags it into view- a bloody tribute, groaning slightly as blood pours out of a gash across his stomach, opening up his intestines for the world to see.

"What do you suggest we do with him, Gleam?" asks Four, dropping the boy's leg and walking up to him, their bodies just brushing up against each other. I have a sneaking suspicion of what _they _did to keep warm last night.

Gleam looks around, shoulders pushed back to show his muscle, a fine specimen of a tribute, everything the Capitol would love. I can practically feel the cameras on him- and us, cowering in the shrubs.

"Leave him here," Gleam decides, as the two from Two walk in a circle around them, like well-trained attack dogs. "He'll make a good warning."

"Aren't we going to kill him first?" asks the Two boy.

"No. He'll bleed out eventually. Besides," he presses his foot above the boy's wound, and he screams out, chilling my blood, "I want him to suffer. Make him pay for trying to steal from us. Come on, we've left Nine in charge of camp and I don't trust her." Gleam and Four walk away laughing, with the Twos on their heels. We wait, frozen in silence, until they disappear back towards Eden.

"Denna!"

"Hm?" I realize Cossie is tugging at my arm.

"We- we can't leave him like that." She's white as a sheet, and trembling. I glance over to Jed, who looks like he is going to throw up. I guess I'll be alone on this one.

I walk out into the open, towards the boy, who is still whimpering softly. Close to, I recognise him as the thin-faced boy from Six. Carter, I think his name is. I kneel down in the red-stained grass, the blood seeping into the legs of my trousers.

"Hey," I say, scared to touch him. "It- it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you." I make the mistake at glancing at his open stomach and feel the bile rise in my throat. I can smell acrid metal and something else, vaguely putrid.

"Please," he whispers, through gritted teeth. "Please." He raises a finger, manages to point at the dagger I'd forgotten I had gripped in my hand. I swallow.

"Okay."

I try to think- where would it be fastest. Through the temple, of course, but I can't quite bring myself to do that. I remember Abernathy had a similar wound to this in the finale of his Games, and wonder how he possibly managed to outlive his opponent.

I settle on the heart, resting the tip of my dagger in the middle-left of his chest, between two ribs. "Ready?" I ask him. He close his eyes and nods, and I push the knife downwards. It takes less effort than I expect, slowing down as it reaches the muscle I am aiming for and then puncturing all the way through, burying itself in the dirt through his thin body. He sighs slightly, and his body relaxes as I hear a cannon go off overhead.

"We got some!" declares Willow triumphantly, holding up a groosling in each hand. Ash strolls behind her, crossbow and a tied to his back. The girl freezes when she sees my bloody hands and knees.

"What _happened _to you?" she cries out. I shrug, not trusting my voice. I cannot let myself break down in front of her, this thirteen year old girl, who has placed her faith in me.

"We're fine," says Jed, stepping forward. "The careers dumped a half dead tribute in front of us without actually noticing we were there. How do they expect to kill the rest of us if they can't even find us?" Cossie smiles humourlessly.

"We got berries and wood," she tells them, "it's, what, three in the afternoon? We should get back." We start walking. I am on autopilot, thinking of the blood on my hands. I imagine it running up my arms, into my mouth, choking me, clouding over my eyes until everything is crimson.

"Denna." We are at the wall. Ash, taking pity on me, gives me a leg up for the tricky first part of the climb and I drag myself back to the now enough to make it the rest of the way. I offer to take first watch, dangling my legs in the waterfall and watching the blood wash away as the others pluck, slice and start cooking the grooslings. I catch a glint of silver floating towards me, and stand up excitedly.

"Parachute!" I call back to the others. To receive a gift from sponsors this early, and for such a motley group of tributes, is highly unusual. I wonder what we have done to catch their attention, and how well Haymitch and Chaff sold us- I'm pretty sure it had nothing to do with my own mentor.

The package is big- the bag alone will be useful. I pull it open as the others come over to reveal rolls of black, synthetic material.

"Sleeping bags!" exclaims Jed, unrolling one and throwing it around Willow's shoulders, who was already shivering. "You're lucky you've got us to look after you," he tells her.

"Shut it," Ash tells him.

"Hey!" Cossie cuts in. "We shouldn't be arguing. Look what we've just been sent, we should be happy."

I nod in agreement as everyone takes a roll from my lap- there is one for each of us. This gift would have been expensive, so we must have at least a few supporters.

"Not too bad, Abernathy," I say to the sky, as dusk falls and the anthem begins to play.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N Guess who wrote four more 2,000-odd word chapters of this over the weekend instead of revising for exams? You know what that means? BONUS CHAPTER! I hope you enjoy this. I mean, it's not particularly happy or anything, but still. Please do leave me a review, I'll try to make sure I reply to them!**

The next few days find the five of us settling into the routine; wake, eat last night's leftovers, wash in the waterfall and fill our bottles, split up to hunt, come back, make a fire, cook and eat, storytime, sleep. The second to last is my favourite time- I'm fascinated by how the other tributes live, how Twelve is much more lax in law enforcement than Eleven, but with far fewer supplies and facilities. I learn about constellations, what types of fruit are safe to eat, how to set up a climbing rig, and so on. In turn, I tell them about One, and the the beautiful things we see but cannot own- perfumes, furniture, the district's men and women who are taken to the Capitol and have their "company" sold. These conversations carry on until the anthem begins- two more dead on our third night, another on the fourth, bringing the total up to twelve, so half of us are gone. It's Gleam, both from Two, Four girl, me, and all of them from Ten, Eleven and Twelve. We don't encounter the Careers again, neither do we find the tributes from Ten and Four, although the traces we find while out hunting leads me to believe they are somehow managing to survive separately. It is now our seventh night- nothing particularly eventful has happened in the last couple of days, which is ominous.

"I'm bored," announces Jed. Ash is on watch, while I teach Willow and Cossie how to weave patterned bracelets as we were taught to in One, out of long grass strands. I glance over at him.

"Seriously?" I ask. "We're stuck in an arena, being forced to fight to the death, and you're bored?"

"_Exactly_," he replies, shuffling towards me and taking me by the shoulders. "Nothing's happening. Let's go spy on the Careers or something, Dogsbody."

I stare at him doubtfully. I don't want to get them into danger, but if we stay here much longer, it is likely to find us. "Fine," I say, "anyone else coming?"

The others shake their heads, so I gather up my blades and some rope and follow Jed out of the cave mouth. We pick our way along the cliff face in silence for a couple of minutes before he speaks.

"Which of us do you want to win?" he asks suddenly, stopping in his tracks. I stare at his back.

"What?"

He turns to face me, squinting in the dusky gloom. "I mean, sooner or later, you're going to have to choose. You know that right?"

I narrow my eyes. "Of course I do. Come on." I brush past him, but he catches my arm and spins me round.

"You can't keep avoiding it, One. So who's it going to be? One of the girls? They won't last five minutes without you. You're better off choosing me or Ash." There's something in his eye I haven't seen before, something I cannot place.

"Jed," I say, slowly, cautiously, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Well you're going to!" He yells, and for the first time, I feel scared of my ally. He purses his lips and breathes deeply before continuing. "Ash… he's big. Powerful. He'll survive on his own. But nobody likes him, he'll never get any sponsors."

"Jed, stop it."

He laughs. "Stop what? We're only talking, Dogsbody." He leans lazily against the rock, pulls me into him. I can feel his heartbeat through the layers of clothes and skin. "What say we sneak off, you and me? Less competition, and you can still keep your promise to Haymitch."

"No!" I wrench myself out of his grasp. "It wouldn't be right, and you know it!"

He spits, cocks his head to the side. I recognise the glint in his eye now, and it is madness. Oh, Jed. Out of everyone in this forsaken Arena, why did it have to be you? "We're fighting to the death, One. There's no right about it." He lunges towards me and I duck, running under his arms and slamming into the cliff face, grazing my palms and knees. He teeters on the edge of the precipice for a moment, then regains his balance and turns back towards me, snarling. I think I can take him- he's slightly larger than I am, but I'm better fed, stronger. Still. Evasive tactics for now.

"Jed," I say, holding my hands out in front of me, "you don't have to do this. Let's- please, let's just go back to the cave."

"No!" he screams, voice echoing around us. I hope the Careers can't hear, but they undoubtedly can. "I can't! I can never go back!" Saliva runs in strings from his lips, flecks of it flying as he speaks. "Don't you understand? They have to die!"

"No, Jed," I reply. "No, they don't." As I speak, I slowly take my knife and sever the rope anchoring Jed to the surface.

I know there's no hope for him, I know I can't save him now. But that doesn't make what I do next any easier. I launch myself forward, forcing my shoulder deep into his chest, and his arms are flailing defenselessly as he plummets, and lands with a sickening crunch. My own rope yanks me back as I'm halfway over the edge so that I land with my upper half dangling down, forced to stare at the bloody, open eyed body below me. His expression is of surprise. I'm shaking, I realize, as I pull myself up and away from the edge- not with fear, but with adrenaline. I have just saved the others.

_At the price of one of them._

"Shut up," I mutter to myself, as the cannon fires. I hope I'm not going mad too.

Before I can worry about it anymore, I hear a familiar scuffle of a footstep on loose rock behind me. I spin round, my senses heightened from the moment of danger, both daggers raised. Almost before I have time to think, the boy from Ten launches himself towards me.

"Murderer!" he shrieks, is eyes bloodshot and bulbous. "Murderer!" His scrawny fingers wrap themselves around my neck, squeezing and squeezing. "Murderer!" We fall to the floor. "Murd-" he is choking on his own blood as my dagger drives its way through the hollow at the base of his neck. I feel red splash onto my face, hot and wet. Disgusted, I roll out from under him and slide my blade from his neck. He coughs once or twice, feebly, then moves no more. The cannon fires, the second time in less than a minute. Both times, because of me.

I start to move, quickly, before the hovercraft and Careers arrive. My limbs feel old, and heavy, but I try not to look too affected, as I know the cameras are watching. By the time I reach our home supply of water, the adrenaline has worn off completely, and I want to lie in my sleeping bag and close my eyes and not open them again until I am out of this forsaken arena. But I force myself to wash the blood off my face and hands, while wondering what Haymitch, what the sponsors, the people back at One and Jed's family in Twelve will make of this. And the Ten boy, who I killed because he spoke the truth too soon, while it was still raw. He should still be alive, I know it.

I walk into the cave just as the anthem starts to play, and the pictures of those dead by my hand flash into the sky, their eyes watching me as I explain slowly, dully, what happened, to my allies.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Short chapter! I might update twice this month to make up for it. In the meantime, please leave a review x**

I can feel their eyes boring into me whenever I face away from them, their whispers, hidden behind their hands. Now they know I'm a murderer, like the boy from Ten, and I no longer have their trust. I know it is too late to turn back on our plan, that Abernathy will never forgive me, and that they still deserve to live, but their behaviour is making it… difficult.

I take Cossie and Willow gathering, leaving Ash in charge of finding meat. This was their decision, not mine- I think it was because they do not want any of them to be left on their own with me. It's understandable, of course, but it doesn't make it any easier. And before long, I start to worry that they might be planning to kill me, for vengeance. They know how to hunt now, have grown stronger under my tutelage, my training. Me! The three of them, working together, could easily overpower me, and I was the one that taught them how to do it. I crush the berries I am holding in my fist, the blood, the juice, running scarlet between my fingers. The gash on my leg throbs, but I barely notice.

"Denna!" Cosssie calls over. I jump. "Are you okay?"

"I look down at my stained hand. "Yes. There was… an insect."

She narrowed her eyes. "Right."

I opened my fist and let the mush fall to the ground, before wiping my hand on my torn pants. I think back to the tribute I had taken pity on a few days ago, and how bothered I had been by taking his life. It seems like nothing now, compared to what I have done, become. Before I can do anything else, I hear Willow being sent to go and stare at a tree with her hands over her ears, and Cossie seizing my wrist.

"I want to talk to you," she said, eyes blazing. I swallow. But if she wants to kill me, then she wouldn't do it now, with so little protection, out in the open and with Willow to look after.

"What?" I ask shortly, not meeting her eyes.

She lets go of me. "You know we don't blame you for Jed's death, right? We could all see it coming, even if you couldn't. It- it was only a matter of time."

I look up suddenly, breathing shallow. I feel the ground rushing upwards and slam into my knees and I lean forward, laughing weakly. Or maybe I am crying.

"Denna!" Cossie sinks down next to me. "It's okay, it's alright, you're not in trouble, we don't-"

"I'm so sorry," I mumble, wrapping my arms tightly around my shoulders, slowly beginning to rock backwards and forwards. "I th- I thought you were going to kill me too, I thought I deserved it, I was so sure, I was going to run off and I, I don't know what's happening to me, Twelve. This wasn't part of the plan," I sob.

"It wasn't much of a plan to begin with," she tells me, stroking my hair. I know this is not what should be happening, that Abernathy and the sponsors won't like it- I'm meant to be their guardian, I must not show weakness. But now Willow is here too, and they're both whispering to me, and I can't hear what they're saying but it doesn't matter- they are here, and that is enough.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N My personal favourite chapter. Shout out to Grace and Louise, my long-suffering beta readers who not only have to deal with me on an almost daily basis, but also my crappy writing. Please leave a review!**

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It's been another three days, without death nor serious event, and now my hands have stopped shaking and I am ready to help Ash hunt again. He has been more distant than the girls, but Willow has repeatedly assured me that that was his way of dealing with such things, rather than his attitude to me in particular. I grab my blades and rope, while he picks up his crossbow and a sack. Yesterday we saw a few fat woolly goats hopping from ledge to ledge on the cliff face, and have decided to track one down before anyone else can. We fill our water bottles and hike in silence for a few minutes, before Ash speaks.

"You think we should see what the Careers are up to, One?"

I shrug, glad that he isn't bringing up the events of the last week. "How many of us are there left?"

"Ten," he replies, after a pause. "Us four, one from Four, Ten girl, and the four Careers."

"So we're equally matched… we're their biggest threat." I purse my lips. "I'm surprised they haven't come after us already."

"After they saw Jed's ugly mug in the sky, they probably thought you would take care of us for them." I stop and stare at him. "That was a joke."

"Not funny," I mutter, brushing past him. But now I know he was kidding, I can't help but smile. "You have a twisted sense of humour, Eleven."

"I do indeed," he grins wickedly. "But seriously, we're a target now."

I nod. "I'll go up to Eden tomorrow, if you guard base." He nods. "I won't make a move yet- I'll see how good their supplies are, if they are getting desperate yet. But for now, we need to concentrate on-"

I'm cut off by a high, piercing scream that makes my blood run cold. I grab the hilt of my daggers, reaching over my shoulder and around my waist, and Ash raises his crossbow to his shoulder, muscles tense. The sound's source is suddenly revealed- the girl from Ten, face hollowed by hunger, is scrambling across the rocks towards us, her mouth open in that unending red scream and blood dripping through her shirt. She lunges towards us and I hear a whistle of air in my ear, and a crossbow bolt appears in her eye during the time it takes me to blink. Dying instantly, she collapses and we hear her bones breaking as she rolls down the cliff. I turn to stare at Ash.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Reflex action, I don't think…"

"She was attacking us?" The cannon fires. "There was no reason for her to…" I trail off, as one of the goats we saw yesterday trots towards us, following the footsteps of the girl. Red's dripping from its curled horns, and now we are closer, I could see how big it is. Unnaturally big, with acid yellow eyes. It bleats. "I think I know why she was running, Ash."

"No shit." The ram lowers its head and paws the ground- and two more appear behind it. "Run?"

"Yep."

The three bleat again, in eerie unison, and charge. We spin round, weapons slung back across our shoulders as self-preservation becomes our primary goal. I can't help but think how surreal it is, and how comical it must be for the Capitol viewers. Rocks slip beneath my feet and fall down the cliff as I pull ahead of Ash, being smaller and faster. But he is the better climber and begins to hoist himself further up.

"Split up!" he hisses at me, continuing to climb. I run, but the giant, murderous goats (I really can't believe this) are faster than me. I turn, pulling out my daggers, and sink into a low stance. One of the rams breaks off and scrambles up after Ash, but the other two remain fixed on me- the first, the one that stabbed the Ten girl, is closest. I double check what I was thinking- my rope is tied securely to an outcrop just ahead of the running mutt. It passes this point and I can feel every muscle pulled taut, and my jaw clenched.

"Wait, wait," I mutter, as it draws closer. It's only two feet away-

"Now!" I hiss at myself, dropping a hand and pulling myself along the rope, dropping to the floor and on my back. The goat is too confused to understand what's happening and I slide underneath it and its deadly horns- I let go of the rope and with both hands, drive my dagger into its underbelly and pull along its gullet.

Hot, stinking blood and guts splash onto me, covering my head and torso and upper legs, leaving only below the knee clean. The full weight of the goat crashes down and the air is forced from my lungs, which is good because it _stinks_. Face contorted in disgust, I put all my effort into heaving its carcass off, towards the cliff- there's good meat on this goat. I drag myself up and feel the blood drip down my legs, over the leather of my boots. The other goat is staring transfixed at me, utterly still. I bare my teeth and it trots away as fast as its disproportionately small legs can carry it, bleating wildly. I spit goat blood out of my mouth and re-sheathe my daggers.

"One!" I hear Ash yelling at me. "I was climbing, and it slipped and fell, I doubt I could've-" I hear his voice falter behind me, and I turn to face him. "What _happened_?"

I stare at him, as menacingly as I can, raising a lip in a sneer. I jump forward and he starts backwards, and a high-pitched shriek comes from him. I double over, laughing hysterically. He leans forward to shove me and I fall on my butt with a squelch, still giggling maniacally.

"Not funny," he tells me, looking disgustedly down at his now bloody hand.

"I think I should probably wash before going back to base," I say, once I've calmed down a bit.

"Ya think?" he raises an eyebrow. "Lucky for you, while I was climbing for my life I found a nice little pool in a cave that you could use."

"Really?"

"Yeah." He leads me across the rocks and I leave a trail of blood behind me, so I pull out my water bottle and start washing it away behind me. It takes about ten minutes of this slow procession to reach what Ash had found; a narrow opening leading to a mossy cave, filled entirely with a dark, glistening pool fed by a stream pouring outwards from a hole near the ceiling.

"You okay getting back to base from here, girlie?"

"Yeah. Tell the girls where I am, but spare the gory details."

"I was planning to."

"Oh, there's a big goat carcass where you found me. Should be some good meat on that."

"I'll check it out." And with that, he leaves me.

I briefly consider washing with my clothes on, but I am desperate to get them off me. So I strip naked and left them spread across a rock, semi-submerged- I'll turn them later. Where I had been covered by my clothes the blood is now patchy on my skin, leaving faint patterns from the weave of the cloth. I tentatively dip a toe into the pool, and draw it out quickly with a hiss- it's freezing. More slowly, I slide in, wincing as the cold rises up my bare legs, making goosebumps rise on the skin still above the water. I wade towards the stream, noting how it works almost perfectly as a shower- this place must have been designed by the Gamemakers specifically for bathing. I gasp as it splashes down my neck and over my chest, tugging away the dried blood. I notice bruises and scratches I haven't seen before, mottling my tanned skin. I run my fingers through my hair, pulling it out of its ponytail, untangling it, rinsing it clean of blood until it hangs, jet black, down my back.

When I'm sure I'm clean, I splash back to my clothes and sit on the rocks, using handfuls of damp moss to scrub them clean. I rebandage my leg, too, washing the strip and clumsily retying 's probably not the most hygienic thing by this point, but the wound has scabbed over and it's more to stop anything catching on it, really. It's nice here, in this isolated little pool, so I pull on my underclothes and leave the rest just inside the cave, where the blazing early afternoon sun reaches them, and lie down on my front beside them, facing the entrance.

"Giant killer goats," I murmur, picking at a scab on my shin. "That's definitely a first."

After an hour or so, I find myself drifting into sleep, and reluctantly pull myself up and begin to dress again. I shove my feet into my boots and pull on my belt and dagger sheaths, and slip out of the cave. When I make it back to base, the girls have started a fire and Ash has skinned and cut off hunks of goat meat, which are now being turned on a spit above the flames. The sun sets behind me, and when it comes, nobody pays attention to the Capitol's fanfare.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N Shit's beginning to climax, y'all. Forewarning: it gets a lot darker from here on in, if there's anything particularly bad I'll add in a trigger warning at the beginning of the chapter (I'm reluctant to rate anything M unless it has hardcore, detailed sex in it). Please tell me what you think, constructive criticism is welcomed (as is anything else)! Thanks to Aranel Silvertongue and DarkLight2589 for reviewing so far x**

**TRIGGER WARNING: suicidal thoughts**

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The next morning, however, we are not nearly so relaxed. The previous evening we had discussed today's events. We had enough food for the next couple of days, what with the meat from the goat, so we divided up half of what we had into quarters, leaving us each with some chewy goat meat, two groosling legs, and a handful of nuts and blackberries, as well as a water bottle each and our sleeping bags. We would leave like any other day of hunting and gathering, but when we reach the treeline at the bottom, we would split up, with Ash taking the girls back to base via a series of detours (hopefully throwing off anyone who might be following them) while I carry on "checking the snares". Then I would go round to the far side of the cliff, which we had realised was roughly cylindrical in shape, and climb up to Eden, distracting the Careers and taking out as many as I can. When I reach the point of total defeat, just before they take me out, I am to scream, as loudly as I can, to alert them that it's now or never. That was why everyone had packed- they are going to take Eden, and as many Careers as possible.

I sharpen my daggers with a kit I had found in one of the bottom of the rucksacks, as Ash counts his crossbow bolts and the girls fidget uncomfortably with the weapons they have been given. Willow has a scimitar strapped to her waist, which is almost as long as her leg; Ash has the other one. Cossie, meanwhile, grips her pickaxe tightly. As we file out of the cave that had been my home for the past two weeks, I glance back at it- the charcoal circle, the spare food stacked neatly should we ever come back for it, Jed's empty sleeping back rolled up and shoved in a corner, out of sight. It's warm and dirty, and dangerous and uncomfortable, but I'm going to miss it.

As we arrange our climbing ropes, I feel a pair of skinny arms wrap around my waist.

"Willow," I mumble, turning around and kissing the top of her head. "It's okay. It's going to be okay, I promise you."

Ash pulls her off of me, and I turn to face Cossie. Blinking back tears, she kisses my cheek.

"Fight hard," she whispers, gripping my shoulders tightly. I nod. I catch Ash's eye, and he bows his head, but doesn't speak.

There's silence, meant for the farewell of another, now lying dead in the Capitol.

"Right," I say, taking a deep breath. "We have work to do."

We make our way down the rock face, carefully but quickly. The ground meets us sooner than I'd like, just as the sun has properly risen, and the dawn chorus is reaching its tail end as trees begin to shadow us.

"You know," I say, as naturally as possible, "we've got enough food that we don't need to go out searching. You three go back to base, I'll check the snares and meet you later."

They nod. "Remember, Twelve," Ash says suddenly, "the Games don't stop 'til you're dead." He takes the girls' hands and pulls them away, and, with any luck, that's the last I will see of them. A sob rises up into my throat and I choke it back down, biting hard on my fist. I allow myself this moment of weakness, then breathe deeply and push my shoulders back, raising my chin. I brush my fingers over the hilts of my blades, and set off, as quietly as possible.

It takes half an hour of sneaking through the undergrowth to reach what I estimate as the far side of the cliff. I glance around me and walk hastily to the wall, then begin climbing without ropes to secure me, just like my first day in the Arena. For the first time since then, I feel truly connected with the rest of Panem- up until this point, I felt isolated. Everything is silent, without even animal calls; the Gamemakers must know that we are reaching the climax of this year. I pull myself up, trying to conserve precious energy. The sun beats down on my back and I begin to sweat, my hair escaping from its tie. When I reach a ledge I pull it loose, hoping it will shade me, but instead, I realise as I climb, it only makes me hotter.

The top becomes closer and suddenly I can see trees- not dark evergreens like those at the bottom, but leafy orchard trees and a gnarly oak. But something is wrong- I can't hear voices. They are waiting for me.

There's a ledge, sloping gently upwards, that appears to be a pathway to the top, finishing just behind the oak- I creep along it, crouching lower and lower until I reach the tree. I can't see anything but the ground beneath me but I can listen; and what I hear is nothing but the rustling of leaves in the light breeze that flutters my hair about my face. I unsheathe my daggers as I press my back to the trunk of the tree, mentally counting to five. Then I spring out, weapons raised, and…

… Nobody is there. There's no other hiding places- I can see into the Cornucopia, which contains some scant supplies, and the other trees don't offer enough protection. Nor is there any other place to hide beneath the peak, without some part of your body being seen. I am alone.

Tentatively, should anyone jump out of thin air at me, I step towards the Cornucopia. It's filled with weapons, of course, but hardly any food, despite the two parachutes I can see thrown carelessly in amongst the rest. Clearly, they have either had no luck with hunting, or just haven't tried- I suspect the latter. At the base of the Cornucopia, spilling out onto the lawn, I can see padded bedding and sleeping bags.

I have a look round the rest of Eden- the trees are plucked bare of their fruit, and the ground is muddied and bloodstained in several places. I stare at one spot, more familiar to me than the rest- where I stabbed the female tribute from District Two through the hand. I feel a strange sense of pride.

I can see there's no point in staying here- there's not even any supplies worth having. I get my bearings, then climb down the base side of the cliff. As I do, Ash's last words come back to me, and I wonder what he meant by them.

I make it back to base and for the second time today, I feel something is wrong. I see red smudges around the mouth of the cave, that weren't there when we left- then I realise that the others won't be back yet, and the Careers have raided our cave while we were gone- the Two girl must have left the smudges, having reopened her wound or something. I'm frustrated at myself for not suggesting anyone guard the cave, and walk angrily towards it, to assess what has been taken before the others return.

And then I see inside the cave, and realise what a fool I have been.

The first thing I see is a small, dark hand, fingers curled up slightly, with a tiny pool of blood in the palm. I follow the arm up, and the scarlet trail that runs along it, to a thick gash in Willow's slim neck, with fresh blood still trickling from it. Her eyes stare lifelessly at the exit; she must have died waiting for me to rescue her.

Behind her is Ash, almost unrecognizable with his face swollen by bruising. He is curled into a ball, with his limbs bent crooked and too often, and looks smaller in death. Younger.

I look at them and scream, falling forwards and sinking down the blood-streaked wall. My nails are torn backwards from the rock and I scream more at the pain, raw emotion tearing me apart as it tries to escape my chest. I can't touch either of them and stop screaming only because I can't breathe, and fumble for my knife, getting ready to plunge it into my neck. Then I remember what Haymitch said to me, the night before the Games.

_"__If your allies do die before you, don't throw your life away because of it… I want you out of there alive as much as I do my own tributes__."_

I cannot let him down, not again. He, they, mean too much to me to do that. Trembling, I slip the knife back into my belt, and instead reach out to Willow's bloodied hand.

Then I realise one finger is slightly more outstretched than the rest, and she is pointing to a shadowy hollow.

Within it stands the girl from Four, bronze hair falling in clumps around her face. She has her hand over Cossie's mouth and a knife to her throat- but she's alive, yes, she's alive. I lunge forward but feel something heavy club me around the back of the head, and everything goes black.


	10. Chapter 10

I wake to a throbbing pain in the back of my head and numb hands. The reason for the latter quickly becomes clear- my wrists are bound and tied above my head, so that my feet barely reach the floor. Eyes closed, I drag my feet round and try to stand, but my knees give way after a moment. Memories flood back to me, and I moan softly.

"Guys! She's awake! Look!" A fist makes contact with my stomach and I wheeze. I open my eyes and see the male tribute from Two leering at me, hot breath on my face. I glance around and realise I am tied up in the mouth of the Cornucopia. I look to my left and see Cossie, roped beside me. She is deathly pale, and there is dried blood in the corner of the mouth.

"Morning," she says softly, and Two punches her round the face.

"Shut up, Twelve," he snarls, then turns his back on us. "Gleam! Get over here!"

My male counterpart swaggers over, looking none the worse for wear since the Games began- unlike Two, who has a black eye. Gleam casts his eye up and down me, and snorts.

"Just keep on messing everything up, don't you, Lazuli?" he asks softly. I spit at him, and his face contorts with disgust. I wait for the blow, the kick or punch, but it doesn't come. Instead- "untie the Twelve girl," he snaps.

"No!" I blurt, slurring, but of course it's no use. They cut Cossie free of the rope and drag her away from me, kicking and screaming.

"You're gonna regret that, Twelve," sneers Gleam, wrapping his thick arm around her neck. "But not as much as her." He puts his hand over her face and wrenches it sideways.

I cry out to drown the snap of her vertebrae snapping, spit laced with blood flying from my mouth. I'm wailing like a wounded animal, coughing on my own saliva. I hear a higher, scornful laugh- it's the Four girl, tanned skin glowing and healthy. That musical, mocking laugh, I make a decision.

I will kill her first.

"Tyro!" Gleam calls out, dropping Cossie's lifeless body to the floor. "Keep an eye on her. We're going to pick up the rest of their supplies."

"Uhh." The female tribute from Two walks into view, hand still bandaged but face now exposed. She holds her arm to it, probably trying to stop the wind whistling through the hole I made. She grips a spear in her good hand.

The others grab their weapons and leave, still laughing. I follow them with half closed eyes, then let my head droop back down. I want to fight, I want to tear their throats out and get their flesh under my fingernails and feel their lifeblood drip out through my grip, but I can barely move, so I let the aching and blackness and grief overcome me and fall asleep.

%

The respite doesn't last long; I feel water being splashed on my face to the sound of more whooping laughter. I wish they would stop laughing.

"Wakey wakey pretty girl," Gleam breathes in my ear. I open my eyes slowly, and stare through my lashes at him.

"What?" I ask hoarsely.

He pouts at me. "Aw, you sound like you need another drink." He grabs his water bottle, yanks my head back by my hair and tips it into my mouth. I cough and splutter as what is definitely not water, but something foul, sloshes down my throat. I pull my head out of his grasp, losing a handful of hair, to vomit on the ground.

"Oh, sexy, did you not like that?" he grabs my chin and forces me to look him in the eye. "Of course, not so sexy now. Bet the Capitol wouldn't care what you look like anymore, seeing as you're going to die anyway." The other Careers cheer behind him. "Time to have some fun, don't you think?"

He walks behind me and grabs a knife from the back of the Cornucopia, then saws through the rope tying my hands up. He wraps his arms around me and I struggle, but I am too weak to escape as he throws me onto the floor and kneels on my back. I feel the blood rush back into my hands as he calls for the others to take hold of my limbs and pin them down.

I start screaming for help, even though I know nobody can come. I am all that is left- nobody can help me now.

"Let go of that hand, Tyro," Gleam commands, and the girl releases my left wrist and leans back. He shifts, pinning my forearm into the mud with his knee. "Don't cry, baby," he croons, as my shrieks abate to wailing. "It's not going to change anything." He takes the knife, holds it above my little finger, brow furrowed in concentration. Then he forces it downwards.

I howl out as blood spurts from the stump, covering Tyro's shirt. She makes a noise of disgust and Gleam throws the finger at her, to the sniggering of the other two.

"That was for the Six boy you killed," he told me, pushing the hair back from my face. "You remember him, right? The first one. You finished him off for us. Who was next?"

"Her Twelve boyfriend!" calls out Four, who is sat on my other arm.

"Quite right, Ula," Gleam replies breezily. He rests the knife on my ring finger. "Jed, wasn't it? Well, it's not like you're going to marry him now, so you won't be needing this." Another blood spurt, another blinding flash of pain, more renewed screeching from me and jeering from them. "And then the Ten boy, right?" This time, it takes longer for him to cut all the way through- he switches to sawing with the serrated edge of the knife.

"How," I moan, through gritted teeth, "how do you know?"

"Well," he says brightly, "it's never been done before, but we figured, you ought to be properly _punished_ for all the nasty things you've done in the Arena. I mean-" he waves his arm around him- "_we _all thought you were meant to be the nice one, but it turns out you're one of the deadliest tributes in this thing!" he laughs, like he's made a joke. "So, while you were having a nap, we made a request to our benevolent sponsors- for a list of all the people you've killed. We weren't even sure it would be allowed, but what do you know? It arrived ten minutes after we asked."

Ula throws her head backwards. "Thank you!" she calls to the sky.

"And here we are," Gleam finishes. "Now, that's all the people you've _officially _killed. But, your allies, well, it's really your fault they're dead too, isn't it?" he wipes the blade on his trousers. "Now, the big ugly Eleven boy- I'll take responsibility for that one. The brute had it coming when he punched Crassus." The Two boy spits on the floor. "You don't have to worry about him. But, those two poor defenceless little girls…" he sings that last sentence, tapping the blade between my thumb and forefinger. "Now, their blood is entirely on your hands. Or what's left of them." He's got the hang of it by now- two smooth slices, and it's done. I am too exhausted even to cry, and numbness spreads through me, dulling the pain in my hand.

Gleam drops the knife on the grass beside me and I feel the pressure on my back and limbs recede. Slowly, I curl up around my bleeding hand and shake, half-listening to the conversation above me.

"What now?" Crassus asks him.

"I'll kill her in the morning," he replies. "If anyone wants to leave, feel free. But I'm not going after anyone until she's dead- and I'm the one that kills her. Understand?"

"Buh-" Tyro begins, slurring.

"No!" Gleam cuts her off, his voice harsh. "She's mine! My district, my problem, my kill, _do you understand me?_" Silence. "Good. Now, I suggest we get some rest. If any of you want to sneak off and strike out on your own, while we're asleep is a good time to do it." Even now they are enemies, the other Careers are still obedient to Gleam. As the air turns orange then purple around me, I ease my shirt off with my good hand and wrap it tightly around the other, ripping it with my teeth and tying it off the best I can, fumbling repeatedly as I attempt the knots Cossie taught me. Cossie, who must have been kicked off of Eden so the hovercraft could collect her, her head twisted all the way around. I don't want to sleep, but my head is still hurting, and the ache pulls me under again into thankfully dreamless slumber.

%

I awake to the stars telling me it is a little past midnight, and Ula standing over me. I feel more alive, now, with the pain returning, sharp and insistent. Pain and anger, replacing the numbness and fear.

"I'm gonna kill you," she purrs. "Nice and slow. Gleam's great and all, but I can't let him win, y'know?" She runs a knife- the same one that had been used to cut off my fingers- underneath her nails, removing the blood and dirt. "Only one of us can win this, and I wouldn't have volunteered if I didn't think it would be me." She crouches down, coppery hair turned grey in the night light. "Hope you understand, Lazuli." Our faces are inches from each other.

"Perfectly," I reply, and slam my forehead into her nose. My vision, still blurred from the previous hit, is sent reeling, but I stagger upwards, bad arm cradled in my side, and kick Ula in the face, sending her to the ground. Before she can scream out, I kick her again, this time in the stomach, winding her. She curls up on her side, how I was ten seconds ago, and I grab the knife from her hands and, without thinking, plunge it into her temple.

Her death is a horrible one, with drawn out spasming and brain juice on the blade, where I had twisted it and created a hole big enough for some to be drawn out. Disgusted, head swimming, I wipe the knife on the bloody shirt I have wrapped around my hand. I stand in my underclothes and pants, breathing heavily, and realise there is no turning back now.

There are weapons scattered around Eden- Ash's crossbow, my daggers and a broadsword, among others. I pick these up one-handed, swinging the belts of the latter two over my shoulder before figuring out how I can use the crossbow- fortunately, there is a bolt preloaded. Unable to rest it against my shoulder, my aim will be off, but that will not matter at such close range. I brace my feet, six feet away from and facing the Cornucopia, and scream.

Tyro is first out, stumbling and tripping. I wait for her to take two steps, then shoot her in the heart and throw the crossbow aside. Behind her comes Crassus, snarling like a bear- I grip the sword in my hand and swing it, backhanded. Before the Arena, with my dagger-specialised Career training, this would never have worked- but after a few weeks of climbing, my arm muscles are more powerful than they were before and his head goes rolling, his body soon following it. The element of surprise was on my side but now Gleam knows and I rely only on my skill with this dagger, the only one I am able to hold. With the moon high above us, we circle each other, around the turfed up grass of Eden.

"Why can't you just admit defeat, you little bitch?" he snaps, all pretence of calmness from the day gone.

"Don't you see?" I ask him, breathing heavily. "I have. I didn't want to make it to this point. I've failed. I'm not trying to win." My sentences are short, I'm struggling for air. "All this, this isn't for the Games. This is personal. I'm going to kill you Gleam, for what you did to them."

We run towards each other and I deploy the skill I learnt with the mutts, sliding between his legs on the slippery mud. He's fast, but I have the upper hand now and slash wildly with my dagger, catching his arm. He's weaponless, but in my state, he could easily choke the life out of me. I cannot afford to let him get close, and take a step back. He fills the space again and swings a fist, and I duck and slam the hilt of my dagger into his shoulder, right on the nerve as I have been taught. Now his arm is dangling uselessly at his side, and we are more evenly matched. His strikes become less thought out, but faster- I duck and dodge, stepping away until I feel my back press up against the oak- but at least I haven't stepped off the edge. I crouch again as he swings a fist, and howls as it makes contact with the rough, unyielding bark- as he shakes his fist out in pain, I take my opportunity. Turning the blade upwards, I drive it underneath his chin and through his skull.

His expression is one of surprise. He takes a tiny step forward, then slumps against me, pushing us both into the tree. The last cannon of the 60th Hunger Games fires as I push him off of me, and sink down to the floor. I feel no anger, no fear or even relief- just pain, and weariness.

Claudius Templesmith's voice echoes through the Arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victor of the Sixtieth Hunger Games, Denna Lazuli, the female tribute of District One!"

%

**A/N rest assured, this isn't the end of Denna's story. I didn't intend to update again so soon, but I have another 40k prewritten so it's not like I have to ration it out. love-peace-hugs, your review made me so happy, you would not believe. Other readers, please tell me what you think!**


	11. Chapter 11

**TRIGGER WARNING: suicide, mentions of and attempts at.**

A hovercraft materializes above me, the air filled with its incessant, mechanical hum. I blink and suddenly there is a ladder, swinging only gently despite the wind caused by the machine whipping at my hair and clothes. I crawl on my hands- well, one hand- and knees, pull myself up onto it, and an electrical current immobilizes me. The ground is falling away and I see Eden, the cliff and the woods surround it become tiny and unimportant. Then the view is cut off by grey metal and frosted glass and gloved hands are taking hold of me, and one of them has a syringe and they-

%

When I wake up, I am lying in a crisp white gown in a vaguely familiar bed. All the aches and pains in my body, even the ones I didn't know I had, have gone. I raise my right hand to my scalp, and feel that the hair that was yanked out has somehow been replaced, and is thick and healthy. My leg feels as good as new, and I lean forward, seizing the bedsheet to draw it back and see if any scarring remains. That's when I notice my hand.

Of course, they couldn't have reattached my fingers, not after them being hacked off so long ago. Instead, a delicate-looking metal frame is attached to the top of my hand, about half a centimeter out from the skin, with struts holding it in my hand every inch or so. This frame, made of five separate strands branching off a horizontal strip at the wrist, run upwards to my knuckles, where they attach themselves to five slim, silvery metal digits. I stare at it, turning my hand over and over. I seized the bedsheet with no difficulty, but now I cannot figure out how to flex my fingers. I cannot feel with them.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a nasally voice asks from the doorway. I jump and look up to see District One's mentor standing there, beaming delightedly. "I've been informed it may take you a while to master conscious movement, and a great deal of practice to gain some finesse, but really it's quite remarkable what they did, with so little to work with."

I continue to stare at him. There is an awkward pause, then he strides over and pulls me into a hug, which smells of the perfume made back in One. "Congratulations, Denna," he whispers in my ear, then pulls back, regarding me at arm's length. "How does it feel to be a victor?"

I shrug.

"I'll leave you to get some rest," he tells me, still smiling widely. "Your interview with Caesar is tomorrow evening. The prep team will get hold of you in the morning, but this time's yours. Make the most of it!" and with that he leaves me to my silence.

After a couple more minutes of sitting, I realise that I am in my room in the Training Centre. I slide my legs out of bed, then glance to my left and see that my hand has instinctively splayed across the mattress to steady me. I walk to the window, looking out at the Capitol streets, where the sounds of celebration drift to my window. It looks to be early evening, with the sky's pinkish tinge, scarred by clouds. I rest my forehead on the cool glass, and hear myself whimper, like a wounded animal.

Then the floodgates open and I fall to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, punching the ground with both old and new hands. I think of my alliance, the people I killed, who deserved it and who didn't. I keep finding new reasons for them, all of them, not to have died, a way I could have taken their place, until I cannot think for the grief and guilt.

I remain in this state for ten minutes, until my throat becomes too hoarse to do anything. At this point I remember how to detach myself from pain,walk to the shower and turn it on, hoping my new hand is waterproof. It seems so, and I raise it in front of me again. I realise I am concentrating too much on making the fingers move, so instead I try a different technique. If I think about the individual movements of creating a fist, nothing happens. But when I think, simply, _punch_, the hand works smoothly with the rest of me and I crack one of the glossy white tiles. When you punch, the lowest segments of your fingers are supposed to make contact with the surface- but if I did that, I'd probably break my base knuckles. Instead when I hit the wall I did so with the middle knuckles of the new digits, which would normally mean crushing your entire hand- but here I am unscathed.

I turn off the shower and hot air blasts from the walls, drying my body and untangling my hair. I walk to the dresser and pull out a simple shirt and pants, then go to the door. It's unlocked, thankfully, and I creep barefoot down the corridor into the elevator, and press the button for the roof. My heartbeat, still fast from before the shower, quickens again as I step out onto the elevator and walk towards the figure slumped over the railings, half-empty liquor bottle dangling from his hands.

"Wondered how long it would take you to get up here," he says shortly.

"Haymitch-" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"Shut up." He takes a swig. "Okay, say it."

"I'm sorry I let them die." My voice wavers, but I manage to keep it from breaking.

He laughs bitterly. "Course you are."

"It was my fault."

"I know."

This stings, but I continue. "I should have taken them with me, I shouldn't have let them out of my sight."

"Go on."

"And I should have let the Careers kill me when I was in Eden."

That makes him turn to face me. He narrows his eyes. "No," he says flatly.

"Yes, I should-"

"No, you shouldn't. Because then they would have won." I get the impression he isn't talking about the Careers, or what happened in the Arena. "Listen to me girl, you're still in trouble. The Games-"

"Don't stop 'til you're dead?" I raise an eyebrow at him. He pauses, then smacks me round the face.

"You do not use that boy's last words as a joke, you hear me?" he snarls.

"Then you don't get to laugh at me when I come up here to apologize to you!" I yell back at him. "None of this is funny, Abernathy!"

"You think I don't know that?" he roars. Liquor sloshes out of the bottle. "You think I haven't been in your situation?"

"I know you have, and that's why it's so wrong! Don't take it out on me just to make it easier for you!"

"You'd better get used to it, sweetheart, because they're gonna turn your life into a _show_, you'll be put on display and the Capitol will pay extra to see you, to touch you. Your life is not your own anymore, it's theirs, and if you don't like it, you know what you can do about it." He smashes the bottle on the railing and hands it to me, neck first. Alcohol drips onto the wood, staining it dark."You can't jump off the roof. The forcefield will throw you right back."

I snatch the bottle from him and hold the jagged end to my neck. "I'll do it," I say fiercely, glaring at him.

"Oh, I don't doubt it. Go on then, stop wasting my time."

I pause, take a deep breath and close my eyes. Then I bring the bottle into my throat.

Just as the glass grazes my skin, a hand pushes it away and I hear it shatter behind me. I was holding it in my left hand, and my reflexes were too slow. I open my eyes and see Abernathy standing inches from me, smelling of white liquor. I realise I am crying, and panting as if I have been sprinting. Abernathy takes my face in his hands, and rests his forehead against mine.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"What for? Stopping me?"

"For making you try to do it in the first place."

_He wants me alive._

I wrap my fingers in his shirt, pull his body into mine and kiss him. He pushes the hair back from my face and wraps one hand around my back, pulling me in tighter. I've never been held like this before, like I am wanted, needed. It's an entirely new sensation, and I want more, as I realize how starved of affection I have felt my entire life. I need to stay here, on this rooftop, with him, where the sky is always twilit and another's body keeps me warm.

%

I run my hand over an ugly scar on Haymitch's stomach, a relic from his own Games. "Didn't you get a body polish?" I ask him.

"I don't think they liked me enough," he replies, and I laugh. The floor of the Training Centre dedicated to District Twelve was quiet- eerily so, and I begin to understand why Haymitch is… Haymitch. I am dreading the moment when I have to walk through it, back to my own floor and the stylist and prep team that will make me beautiful.

"Haymitch, what did they do to you?"

He pauses. "Do you mind if I don't talk about it? You don't want to hear it."

"Fair enough," I murmur, curling into his side. I open my mouth to ask something else, but decide against it. He notices, though.

"What is it?"

"Nothing." I sit up suddenly, trying to think of a way to change the subject.

Haymitch props himself up on one elbow, and traces my spine with his fingers. "Tell me."

I swallow. "What are they going to do to me?"

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**A/N thank you x3 to melliemoo and the mysterious guest for reviewing! A note about trigger warnings: from here on in, if they appear at the top of one chapter then that applies to the rest of the fic. I'm reluctant to do it for every chapter because of spoilery reasons. Enjoy, and please leave reviews- I'll reply to them all x oh, and you can expect some familiar faces to start turning up soon...**


	12. Chapter 12

**TRIGGER WARNING: sexual abuse/assault**

%%%

I slip back down to floor one at around three in the morning, while Haymitch is passed out from alcohol intake. Unable to sleep, I pace anxiously up and down my room until the prep team that prepared me for the Games burst in. They instantly begin wailing at the red strip across my cheek that Abernathy had left.

"I fell out of bed," I told them quickly, "and smacked my face on the frame. I'm fine, don't worry."

"Oh, gorgeous, we're worried about whether it will show under your make up."

"…Right."

The topic of conversation shifts to how seamless my hair grafts are, to how nobody was expecting me to win, and how everyone was completely won over by "that part". I wonder what they are referring to- my last night on Eden, my first kill, any of the evenings sat in our base cave. When they are done applying my makeup and hair, the main points of which appear to be blood-coloured stain on my lips and a mass of curls pinned all to one side of my head- my bejewelled stylist walks in, congratulates me, and hands me the dress hanging over his arm. He observes me closely as I slip it on- a tightly fitted bodice covered with tiny, mirrored shards, with stiffened silver cloth that sticks up over one shoulder and an almost completely transparent skirt, dotted with diamonds. I am given skeletal grey shoes to wear that add a good six inches to my height, a final touch of silver eyeliner is applied and before I know it, my mentor is giving me a final pep talk before going on stage with the one and only Caesar Flickerman.

"Remember," he tells me, sounding somewhat tense, "act grateful. The Capitol is the reason you're still alive. Flatter them, thank them, make them glad they chose you and not anyone else." Suddenly, I don't see him as the artificially young, pampered victor with everything he wants. He is like me- a survivor, still trapped by the Capitol.

And then my name is being called and there is a hand on my back, gently shoving me into the blinding lights. Caesar Flickerman, his hair and lips pale orange, walks across the stage and kisses my cheek, before laughing and pulling me into a hug. He guides me towards two plush chairs and gestures for me to sit in one of them, for which I am glad- the shoes feel like vices around my feet. I only notice the roaring and applause as it begins to die down, and Caesar raises a hand for silence.

"Here she is, ladies and gentlemen. Here she is." He chuckles, and the citizens of the Capitol scream and stamp their feet. The people who decided to send the Careers a list of the people I killed. "And look at her- isn't she beautiful?" I giggle and bow my head.

"You're too kind, Caesar," I tell him.

He leans forward and takes my hand. "Not at all, my darling. Now tell me- how does it feel to be victor?"

I look up and around me, at the adoring faces, then lean in closer as if sharing a secret. "A little surreal, if I'm honest. I don't think it's quite sunk in yet."

"That's quite understandable, my dear," he replies, patting my artificial hand. "But ah- what is this?" he lifts it up for the crowds to see- there are gasps of horror.

I turn my head to the crowd and say, a little sadly, "it was too late to reattach the fingers. But if it weren't for the Capitol, I'd be left with a stump."

"And haven't the surgeons done a simply outstanding job, ladies and gentlemen?" A round of applause ensues, and a spotlight shines down on the woman who I presume created my hand. She acknowledges the clapping with a quick wave and curtsy, before the attention is invariably turned back to me. "Now, Denna. The last day or so has been a difficult time for you. So tell me, how have you coped?"

I wonder how truthful I should be. "It's been… hard. There are times when I think of what more I could have done for them, but I know that they would want me to be here today. And I can't let them down," I gulp, and let the tears come, "not again."

It's a public grieving- refrained, dignified, attractive. Nothing like the raw anger and loss I am feeling; of _course _they wouldn't want me to be here today, that was the whole damn point. But this interview is not for me, or them. I wipe my tears with the silk handkerchief Caesar hands me, being careful not to smudge my makeup. And as I look up, I see those watching me weeping too, burying their faces in each other's shoulders.

"It's okay," I call out to them, stretching my good hand towards a camera. "If I can get through this, I believe you can, too. We can all make them proud."

_Them_. Not needing to be called by name. Willow lying dead in the cave, Ash next to her with his body broken from trying to protect her. Cossie, her neck wrung like it was nothing. Jed, driven mad by what had happened to him. And who else? Who else is not important enough to be named?

"You brave, brave young lady. One of our finest victors, I am sure. Now," he turns back to the audience, "are we ready to see our- and _your_ favourite moments from this year's Hunger Games?" He looks back to me and I nod, smiling. "Well, that seems pretty positive, don't you think? Ha! Denna Lazuli, these are your highlights!"

The stage turns black except for a small spotlight on me, to make sure they catch my reactions clearly. The screen above us becomes brighter, and Claudius Templesmith begins to speak over a whimsical rendition of Panem's anthem.

"A Games like no other. A year of alliances and attraction, of bloodthirst and betrayal. The year that a young tribute from District One shook up the traditional approach with her… unusual plan. A plan that failed, but led to victory." It's a shot of me on my chariot, Gleam carefully cropped out, waving nervously to the crowd. Then the screen flickers through edited clips of my training and interview to me blinking in the white sun of the Arena. Then it cuts to a wide shot of the Tributes scaling the cliff, and then to the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. You can imagine how it goes from here- various shortened scenes of particular events, mainly murder, mainly centered on my own storyline. It's not until about two-thirds of the way through that my reaction becomes genuine.

I had no idea that, when I had showered, there were cameras in the cave- although looking back, it now seems obvious. I notice how the cheering reaches its loudest at this point, at my bare back, carefully cropped to ensure it is not too explicit. I wonder how much they showed live.

I feel the bile rise in my throat and hide my face in my hands, hoping this will be interpreted as only embarrassment. My breathing becomes shallow and shaking and the urge to vomit becomes overwhelming. I know that there is nothing the Capitol won't do, but this? This is beyond wrong. I was fighting to the death, I'm still a child and they- they actually _enjoy_ this?

I look up, face flushed beneath the makeup, to see Gleam pissing in a bottle while the others egg him on. Behind him I dangle unconscious in the Cornucopia mouth, blood trickling from my mouth and hairline.

The film finishes with me dragging myself to the hovercraft ladder, crawling over Gleam's dead body, and then back to a wide live shot of Caesar and I. He beams at me.

"Well, wasn't that something?" he asks. I force myself to laugh in response.

%

"Congratulations, Miss Lazuli," says the new President Snow, placing the victor's crown on my head. "I hear you have become most popular."

"You would probably know more about that than I do," I reply, and he laughs coldly.

"Of course. But the citizens of the Capitol cannot wait to meet you. Indeed, the Head Gamemaker, Silas Aedile, has asked me to pass on the message he would like you to visit him in his home tonight."

He places a hand on the small of my back and guides me to the edge of the balcony. "And why does he want me to visit his house?" I ask slowly, fearing I already know the answer.

"Oh, I'm sure you can figure it out, Miss Lazuli. Don't worry, I'm sure he will reward you handsomely for your time." The curtains fall in front of us. "You have three hours before he wants you."

"What if I don't want to go?"

"Hmm." Snow turns to face me, his smile fixed and almost reptilian. "You have become quite fond of Mr Abernathy, have you not?"

_How does he know? How does he know?!_

"Unfortunately, District Twelve's only mentor is not quite as popular as you, and nobody will miss him if he suffers from a, ah, tragic accident. Except you, that is."

I am frozen to the floor, staring at him in horror, unable to speak. He pats me on the shoulder before turning to leave. "Say your goodbyes, Miss Lazuli, for one reason or another."

%

Back to the Training Centre, off with this ridiculous dress and into the elevator, pummelling the twelve button with a metal finger. Haymitch is sprawled across one of the sofas, shirt askew, clutching a shot glass to his chest. He looks up as I run in.

"Hey there, darling. Did they finally tell you what was going to happen?" he necks the amber liquid in the glass, and grimaces. "Of course they did."

"Shut up." I ball my fists in anger.

He pushes himself up off the sofa and staggers towards me. "Why? What do you have to worry about? So long as they can fix your pretty face so you always look sixteen, you'll be safe, they adore you." He stinks of alcohol. "You don't even have to worry about being a mentor next year, do you? More than enough One victors to take that off your chest."

I take two steps back. "Why are you like this?"

He laughs bitterly. "I'm drunk."

This time, it's my turn to hit him. He sets his glass down with a thud and raises a hand to his jaw, poking it and wincing. "You bastard," I snap. "Don't make excuses. You act like someone you're not, Abernathy, and I know it. Why? It isn't your fault the tributes from Twelve die."

"_Yes it is!_" he roars, and I flinch. "I help them, they die. I don't help them, they die. Might as well make it easier." He storms away, rests his arms against the kitchen worktop. "Everyone who gets close to me dies, don't you understand? I'm _poison_, ever since the Games."

I approach him, slowly, as one would an animal caught in a trap. "They killed your family," I say softly, "didn't they?"

He pushes his palms into his eyes. "Parents, girlfriend." His voice breaks. "Brother."

"Still not your fault." I take his face in my hands where a bruise is beginning to form, stubble brushing against my fingers. "And neither is this."

He stares at me with bloodshot eyes, reddened with drink and tears.

"If I don't go and have sex with this guy, like Snow wants me to, you die," I tell him flatly. "You're my problem now, Abernathy, not the other way round. That means if you don't accept my help- accept _me_-, you die. And I promise I won't kick it, I'm not leaving you, I'm too precious to the Capitol for them to do to me what they did to your family. And I may not be clever, or whole-" I wave my left hand- "but I'm the best you've got, okay? So do me a favour and kiss me, before everyone else does."

%

I sit on the overlarge bed, next to the bloated, sleeping man next to me, whose fingers and tongue I still feel all over my body. I have been informed that when they fixed my hand and polished my skin, they also put an implant in my arm that prevents diseases and, more importantly, pregnancy. I'm thankful for it, and blown away that they didn't think to tell me by now. Clearly, they didn't think it was important enough to tell me if I _wanted_ to have sex. I will need to attend the hospital to get it replaced, every five years.

Numbly, I place my hand over the small circular bruises around my other wrist, where he pinned me down. There are copies of them on my back, my thighs, my hips and neck. While it was happening, he had left a video on the screen behind us, which I could see over his shoulder. It was the unedited footage of me washing in the Arena.

I know this will undoubtedly happen many times over, with the men and women of the Capitol, but wonder if it will get any easier, less terrifying, more like what I had experienced with Haymitch. With him I had felt safe and protected, and it was exhilarating, like running for your life with the heart pounding and the breath fast and shallow. Now I feel alone, and broken. I can still taste Aedile.

%%%

**Fun fact: in ancient Rome, the aediles were the government officials who organised entertainment, hence the Gamemaker's name. And remember: every time you review, an author loses their shit.**


	13. Chapter 13

Haymitch and the other mentors return to their districts, but I am so in demand that I am to stay in the Capitol until the Victory Tour begins. I wouldn't say it becomes easier, but I learn how to make it more bearable; flatter those who buy my company, act as though I enjoy it and the bruises become fewer. And then I disappear before I too fall asleep, and the nightmares start. Of course, I am rewarded- clothes, jewellery, and the occasional secret I am sure Snow would not want me to know.

When I am not behind closed doors, my life becomes one of parties and fancy dinners, then retreating back to my shiny new apartment. They're grooming me to be their plaything in every action, even in their choice of my living quarters- large and luxurious, but with just one small bedroom. It is clear they do not want me to take people home myself.

I am told to learn a talent to occupy my time outside of this- a piano is delivered to my study. I chose this in order to improve the reflexes in my left hand, and I think practising my fighting skills would be perceived as unseemly- besides, it's not like I need them now.

When the night before the Victory Tour begins final arrives, it is one of the few I have free. Unable to keep still, I move from kitchen to lounge to bedroom before finally settling in the study, staring at the telephone mounted on the wall with my lips pursed. It's ringing almost constantly, but there are only two people I have called myself- my father, to tell him I will be remaining in the Capitol, and someone who, however many times I try, will not pick up.

Still, it's always worth a try. I dial the number I convinced one of my- I've started to call them clients- to give me, then pull the lead back and perch on the edge of the piano, twirling the chord around my fingers. The phone rings once, twice, three times- then there is a crackling, as the other end of the line is picked up.

"If you don't stop calling, Lazuli, I swear I'm going to rip the phone out of this goddamned wall."

I laugh. "Maybe if you had answered earlier, I wouldn't have carried on."

"Bull. I know you love the sound of my voice."

I roll my eyes. "Why didn't you pick up, Abernathy?"

There's a pause. "Too busy drowning my sorrows, sorry."

"Then why talk now?"

"Because it's not like I can avoid you much longer, is it? Not with you starting the Tour at Twelve tomorrow."

"So you have been avoiding me?" I ask, slowly.

I hear him sigh. "No. Yes. You remind me of it all, Denna. I'm sorry."

"It's understandable." I run a hand through my hair. And I do understand- I know I should be offended, but it must be painful for him, and he's right; I miss his voice. Him. "Just don't ignore me tomorrow, okay?"

"I'm sure it'll be hard to."

I kick against the leg of the piano with my heel, stretching the cord out and letting it furl up again. "I'm scared, Haymitch," I confess. "I can't face them. Their families."

"You don't have a choice," he tells me. And he's right.

%

Back on the train, for the first time since the Reaping. My mentor and escort, who I have not seen since the night I won, are sat talking earnestly to the stylist and prep team in the carriage, whose names I have all forgotten completely. I sit with them for an hour or so, making polite conversation and learning what will be happening for the next twelve days, before excusing myself and walking to the rear end of the train, to sit and watch the Panem countryside fly past. I end up falling asleep there, curled up in one of the overstuffed chairs, sleeping the day away and waking up at about ten at night, the air suddenly icy. It's a nightmare that wakes me up- I was being chased by one of the goats from the Arena, round and round, before stumbling. It had caught up with me, and was ramming its horn into my side when I jerk awake- the pain lingers for a moment, a memory of the unbearable, and I twist uncomfortably. I creep down back to my room and spend the rest of the night anxiously practicing piano chords with my metal hand, tapping away on the coffee table.

I am still doing this when the prep team come to wake me up the next morning, to mask the shadows under my eyes, untangle my hair and bring me my outfit for the day- fur and layers, for the harsh District Twelve winters. I walk through the train to find my mentor, who greets me with a tense smile.

"We're running four minutes late," he tells me, wringing his hands.

I nod slowly. "And that's… a problem?"

He stares at me, as if I've just asked how babies are made. Which would be particularly astonishing, considering how I've spent the last six months of my life. "Yes. It's a problem."

"Right," I gesture over my shoulder. "I'll just go and… stand over there."

"Excellent. Don't do anything."

I watch him hurry off, presumably to chastise the driver for daring to be four minutes late. I lean against the wall and flex my left hand beneath the glove, the faint _whirr _of its movement muffled beneath the leather.

"We're here."

The train grinds to a halt beside the shoddy platform, its peeling paintwork covered with specially manufactured banners, sent ahead by the Capitol. It's covered by reporters and cameramen and women, the flashes tattooing themselves on my retinas. I am shepherded out onto the platform and given cards with what to say on them, and find myself standing in front of a microphone, the only thing separating me from the mass of people staring at me; after spending so many months courting the creations of the Capitol, I have forgotten how to speak to real people. I run my tongue along my lips, smudging the gloss that covers them. Fumbling with the cards, I remember what Haymitch had said to me the previous night, when I had confessed to him how terrified I really was.

_"Don't… don't be what they've made you," he had struggled to explain. "Be the girl who tried to die for them in the Arena. I like that girl."_

_I smiled. "That's why you wouldn't answer. You thought I was…"_

_"Not you?" I could hear the smirk in his voice. "Yeah, something like that."_

I glance down at the cards, then drop my hands to my side.

"I will never be able to repay your children for what they did to me," I tell the crowd. "They taught me how to read the stars, tie knots and forage for food that won't kill me. But they also taught me things more important than that- the power of alliance, of friendship. The safety of having someone watch your back. I only wish that I could have done for them what they did for me." I take a deep, shuddering breath before continuing. "It's not fair, what they had to suffer. What you all have to suffer. And I know how little I can do to alleviate that. But I know there's one thing I can manage, one thing nobody can stop me from doing." I raise my chin a little. "I will remember them. And I will remember you, District Twelve." I pause and laugh a little. "And you too Eleven, because let's face it, I'm not going to think of another speech this good… ever, let alone by tomorrow."

There's a low ripple of laughter, and then the clapping begins. There's no wild cheering like in the Capitol, just this simple acknowledgement and thanks for what I have said. And then I see Haymitch, leaning against a building to one side, smiling sardonically as he claps along with the rest of them. I wink back at him, heart pounding with relief in my chest.

%

Inside Twelve's Justice Building, a party of such splendour is being held that it seems impossible for the coal district to have prepared it. It reminds me of the Capitol, to the point I want to forget what's outside these walls- I take a glass of bright green, alcohol imbued drink and down it in one, then nearly throw it back up again. I wonder how Haymitch can stomach it- speaking of, I can't see him. I step forward to look, but someone catches my arm and asks for a dance. I oblige, and they thank me by offering me another glass of brightly coloured- I _think _it's wine.

After that, everything becomes a kaleidoscopic blur, throughout which I grow increasingly accustomed to the taste of alcohol. Jokes become funnier, lights become brighter, people become more attractive, and the floor seems to be quite drunk- it keeps wobbling around, and throwing me off-balance. Suddenly feeling the need for air, I work my way through the throng to a door and walk through it, accidentally smacking into somebody.

"Sorry," I mutter, then realize who it is. "Oh, hello, Abernathy," I greet him brightly. He raises an eyebrow at me. I bite my lips, then snort with laughter.

"I think you might have had too much to drink," he remarks. I thud my hand to my chest, insulted.

"How _dare _you?"

"Yep." He doesn't seem to find the situation as funny as I do. "You need to get back to the train, before anyone sees you."

I pout. "No."

"Yeah. Don't be a stuck-up kid about it."

I stand my ground. "But I _am_ a stuck-up kid."

Haymitch sighs, very deeply, and stares off into the middle distance with a very fed up expression. "Fine. Have it your way, then." He wraps his arms around my waist and throws me over his shoulder, making me shriek. I thud on his back with my fists, but instead of putting me back down, he carries me through dusty corridors to a rusty door, which he has to force open with his free shoulder- the one that doesn't have me on it. I gasp as the icy wind and flecks of snow hit me, and grip onto his shirt tighter.

"Hurry up," I nag him, "it's really cold up here."

"Do me a favour and shut up for a minute, will you?"

We weave through alleys and backstreets before the station surrounds me- I couldn't see it coming up, because I'm facing the wrong way round, because Haymitch is carrying me, because he thinks I am drunk. Which is ridiculous.

He presses a button on the train and the door slides open, spilling warmth onto my ass and legs.

"Which room is yours?" he asks me.

"Um. Fourth to the left." He lugs me through the carriages and through a door to-

"It's my train room!" I cry, happily. He throws me down on the bed, but as he turns to leave, I grab his wrist with my cyborg hand and pull him down on top of me.

"Denna," he begins exasperatedly, rolling off the other side, but I put a hand over his mouth and climb on top of him. I begin to fumble with the buttons on his shirt.

"Have they made these harder?" I ask, then yelp as he takes me by the waist and gently shoves me off of him.

"We can't stop rolling around like this, or one of us is going to fall off," I inform him, wisely, with great wisdom. "There shall be complaints, from at least many several of people."

"Denna," he says again. "Please stop talking."

"Because I'm very popular, y'know. I'm on television constantly, I can't escape my own face. Ha!" I fling my arms out to my sides, clocking Haymitch round the back of the head. "I've finally made it!"

"I've died," he mutters to himself, staring at the wall. "I've died and gone to hell."

I cease my ramblings for a moment glance over at him. "What's wrong?"

He closes his eyes, then mumbles, "please don't talk. Please go to sleep."

"No," I counter, then think of something. "Hey- is this what you're like _all the time_?"

He opens his eyes and glares at me. "What do you think?" he asks, slowly.

I bite my lip. "Good point." I lean my head on his shoulder, and although I think he is annoyed at me, he wraps his arm around mine. "I think I might be drunk all of the time."

"Don't," he says, quickly.

"Why not?"

He laughs bitterly. "Because then you'll end up like me."

I kiss his cheek. "I like you."

"Thanks."

I close my eyes and curl into his side, welcoming the warmth. He runs his hand through my hair until I fall asleep, still tucked in between his arm and torso.

%

The next morning, I wake up to cool, empty sheets, what tastes like a dead animal in my mouth, and the worst headache I've ever had. I pull myself up, and the world spins. My eyes feel like someone has shoved hot coals into them, and I'm pretty sure someone has tipped a bucket of sweat over me.

"Oh, shit," I mutter, before staggering to the bathroom and throwing up in the sink. I hear a familiar laugh behind me.

"Oh, Lazuli, if the Capitol could see you now," Haymitch drawls. I turn around to glare at him, before twisting back and vomiting again.

"How do you do this?" I groan, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. He ambles over.

"Generally, I find the solution is to stay drunk and stop the hangover from happening in the first place," he replies, pulling the hair back from my face. "Urgh."

"What time is it?"

"Four in the morning. We've got five hours until you leave for District Eleven."

I wail as I fumble above my head to turn the tap on. "I can't do this all over again."

"Can I suggest not getting so catastrophically drunk next time? Ouch!" he adds, as I elbow him in the ribs.

"Don't be mean."

"Of course, I forgot you were a fragile and delicate flower this morning." I lean back into him, but he shrinks away. "Maybe a shower?"

"I won't be able to stay standing long enough," I mumble.

"Then I'll hold you up," he replies, without batting an eyelid.

"Fair enough," I concede, and let him pull me up and begin to undo the complex dress I had worn last night.

%%%

**A/N I like to think of this as the light relief chapter. Thank you melliemoo, mysterious Guest, GoGobbleGobbles and WeSayNotToday for your reviews- the latter I especially enjoyed. Also, to the rest of you for follow/favouriting, I never expected to get this much so soon! I've actually finished this fic now- I just need to rewrite it twelve thousand times, so uploads are probably going to be a lot more frequent. Please/follow/fav/review if you haven't already x **


	14. Chapter 14

They don't want me to mentor One's tributes next year, I am relieved to discover. They say it is because there are plenty of victors from our District ready to do the job, but I suspect they don't want anybody else doing what I tried (and failed) to- you are not supposed to want to lose the Games. At least I achieved one thing I set out to do- make the Capitol see they cannot always be in control, even if it does mean them ensuring it never happens again. Another ramification I've heard is that there's talk of abolishing the convention of Careers volunteering at eighteen- presumably to make what I did seem less rebellious.

The Victory Tour ends with an exclusive ball held in the President's own mansion, where I am admired and flattered and groped. I spend the night with Astraea, a woman about a decade older than me who started off as a stylist for District One and now creates half the Capitol's fashion. Her extravagantly manicured hands are dotted with pinpricks from sewing needles.

"How much would you like?" she asks the following morning, leaning away and tapping on the computer screen integrated on the surface of her bedside table.

I still haven't come round to the idea of being paid to bed the Capitol's finest, _by _the Capitol's finest. I have no need of money, after all, nor material wealth in any other form. I rest my chin on her shoulder and run my hand along the side of her body, and hear her inhale sharply.

"Tell me your secrets," I whisper in her ear.

She laughs nervously. "Where do I begin?"

I was joking, of course. But it occurs to me that, in a society where your appearance and reputation are worth most, this could be the most valuable thing to me, in the world of the Capitol. My hand pauses as I think for a moment- what do I want most, right now?- and then I lean back into her. "Tell me about Ardian Quintus."

"The borders minister?"

I kiss her neck. "Don't ask questions."

I can feel her pulse hammering. "Okay." She turns around to look at me, her pupils dilated with excitement- knowing the Capitol citizens, I wouldn't be surprised if she got off on gossip. "My brother's wife works at a boy's home in the northern side…"

Ardian Quintus is the man in charge of all journeys between Districts and the Capitol. Nobody can get far without his permission- which means barely anyone travels at all. He's one of Snow's trusted inner circle, left over from the last President- tall, wiry and middle aged, with close cropped grey hair and thin, pursed lips. He doesn't seem the type to engage in any form of pleasure whatsoever, which made what Astraea told me even more shocking- and valuable.

His secretary puts down the telephone and waves me into his office, which is bare and colourless, very different to what I have become used to. I sit down in the chair across from him, leaning back as he is, hands resting on my knees.

"Miss Lazuli," he greets me coolly, "what can I do for you today?"

I smile at him. "I was wondering if you could grant me a permit to visit District One, sir."

His eyes narrow. "I would have thought you had realized from your Tour that this is not an option," he replies.

He's right. One had been, in its own way, as bad as the outlying districts. It was clear from the moment I stepped off the train they had hated me- for volunteering, for stealing a Career's chance away from her, for befriending Eleven and Twelve, for killing Gleam. And there, I didn't have the glamour and novelty I have in the Capitol to redeem me- to them, I am still the scrawny child of an addict widower, desirable to nobody. As I boarded the train early that night, I heard one of my entourage whisper to another that the Peacekeepers were struggling to maintain a curfew- to prevent a mob from catching me.

"I know I'm not exactly popular back home," I say lightly. He snorts. "But it's only for a short while, you understand- just to visit my father. I'm not expecting any ceremony."

"You shouldn't expect anything more than a lynch mob, stupid girl," he snaps. "There's no way you're leaving the Capitol, least of all to visit One."

I sigh. "I was expecting you to say that, Mr Quintus, but I can't say I'm not disappointed. How's Curio?"

Those last two words have a remarkable effect on him. What little colour he had drains from his face, and he grips the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles turn white. "How- I don't know what you're talking about," he splutters.

I laugh softly, tapping the heel of one of my shoes against the toe of the other. "Of course, you must have forgotten him. He would be older than I am at this point- much too old for _you_, Mr Quintus. I daresay the orphanage he comes from has supplied you with another of their brats by now. I wonder, what would your wife would say?"

His face flushed a blotchy red, mixing with the white in a most unpleasant effect. "Get out," he snarls.

"Of course." I stand up and walk towards the mahogany door. "I was on my way to see your wife, actually."

It takes until I lay my hand on the door handle for him to cry out. "Stop!" he calls sharply. I hide my smile and turn around. "Yes, Mr Quintus?"

He looks terrified, I note with some satisfaction. I consider telling his wife anyway- the poor woman deserves to know- but then I would lose my influence over him. "I can't get you into One- stop! But I can bring your father here."

I sit back down again. "I'm glad we could reach this understanding, Ardian. Now, let's sort out the details."

I'm sat in my dining room when my father is shown in by one of Quintus' underlings, mechanical fingers tapping on the glass of the table. It's getting easier and easier to move them now- playing the piano has been good practice. Plus, in the line of work that Snow has me do, it helps to have skilled fingers. I hear the door open behind me and stand up quickly, wiping my sweaty palms on my dress.

My father is leaning on the doorframe to help him stand- his skin is tinged yellow, his eyes bloodshot and drooping. It takes him a while to figure out how to speak… "Hello, dearest," he manages.

I swallow. "Hey, dad. I didn't see you on the Tour."

"And I couldn't avoid you, not for want of trying. They plastered your face all over the damn town."

I'm not surprised by him- I've grown used to remarks like this. But I was hoping that, maybe, he might have been glad to see me. I flex my left fingers absent-mindedly.

"Did you get the money I sent?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"You spent it on morphling, didn't you?"

He laughs bitterly. "You know me too well, sweetheart." He's reminding me of something, although I cannot think what. "You'll keep it coming, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Knew something good would come of you winning."

I hand him a glass of wine I had poured him beforehand. "You're an appalling person, you know that?"

He raises the glass. "I'll drink to that."

Then I realise who he is reminding me of- bitter, sarcastic, addicted. Angry, but too tired and resigned to do anything about it. The resemblance to Haymitch is uncanny. I'm not sure whether to be amused or slightly disturbed by this.

I clink my glass to his, and take a sip as he drowns the thing in one. "So, how are you enjoying being the Capitol's favourite new whore?"

"I'm getting used to it," I reply. I see how much he hates me- unlike Haymitch, I hope- maybe more than he did before, and wonder why he's come to visit me. It's the same wonder I had when I was younger, at why he still struggled to look after me, instead of handing me over to the authorities.

"You'll have to." He squints over the top of his glass, speech slurred slightly- it's strong wine. "You're starting to look like her."

"Who?"

"The President's wife," he snaps back. "_Her._"

Of course- my mother. I can barely remember her, only a few fragments- the sound of her voice, the way she walked, sauntering around our house with her hips swaying. Her laugh, loud and raucous. Actually, I don't even remember him talking about her.

"She was a whore too," my father went on, in a conversational tone. He grabs the wine bottle and refills his glass. "Slept with every half decent man in One. They didn't even have to pay her. She said they did, as an excuse, but she was lying."

"Dad-" I begin, but he talks over me.

"She would paint her face and knock on their back doors, while their wives were out. Then she died, because she slept around so much. Caught a disease, the doctors said. You were only small." He swallows the drink, face screwed up with disgust. "It was a horrible death- she had a stroke first, then half her body got paralysed, and I had to look after her. Her skin rotted off, and her face blew up so she looked like some kind of freak. None of the men were interested. She didn't last long after that. She could barely talk, y'know? Half her mouth was stuck, too. But she told me you were mine. You were the only part of her I ever really had.

"So I kept you round after she kicked it, pretended that everything was okay, and took the drug to try and forget. If I'd let you go, let them take you, it would have been admitting to her being the filthy tramp she was. But now you're gone anyway, so it's not like I need to pretend. You're not mine anymore. You're theirs, just like she was. Just another one of the Capitol's sluts."

I stare at him, speechless with the bile rising in my throat and my eyes burning. Eventually I manage to speak- and it comes out savage and spitting. "Get out!"

He looks at me with dull eyes. "What?"

"Leave, you bastard! I've had it! Go home and keep injecting that crap and die alone because that's all you deserve- hell, that's all you _want_, isn't it? But don't you _dare _try to drag me down with you, and don't try and blame this on her! She's _dead_! She's dead and all you can go on about is how much you hate her!"

He staggers to his feet, the wine glass falling and shattering on the floorboards. "Don't expect me to visit again," he garbles. I shoved him towards the door.

"And don't expect me to pay for your damn drugs, either." There's a car outside waiting for him, so I slam the door in his face and storm back into my apartment, towards the telephone. My right hand is shaking in anger, so I use my left to stab the buttons.

"Pick up the damn phone, Abernathy!" I mutter, but it rings out. I hit the rest and dial again, and once more after he fails to pick up that time, too. It's only after the third attempt that I give up, screaming as I punch the wall my rage. Almost idly, I note the crater it created as I sink to the floor, curl up and scream, again. It's not helping- all I can think of is the last time I felt this wretched; the cramped, blood-stained cave in the Arena, my allies lying dead around me. It appears everything I get involved with, I wreck- my plans, my friends, my father.

I sit there for hours without crying- at this point, I am beyond tears. The first streaks of rosy sunlight, fractured by buildings, are breaking the skyline when the phone rings. It takes four peals of the bell for me to drag myself up the wall and answer it.

"What is it?" he sounds irritated, not a trace of worry or sympathy. Good old Haymitch. The one person I can't screw up, because that happened long before I met him. "I can't sleep with this thing flashing at me, and it won't stop 'til I answer the missed calls. This had better be worth it."

Without precursory I tell him all of it, from Astraea through blackmailing Quintus to throwing my father out of the apartment. "Is that a good enough reason to keep you awake?" I ask emotionlessly, when I finish. I feel drained. My limbs are heavy with weariness, so I slip back down to the floor with the phone tucked between my shoulder and ear.

"Not even close."

I feel a smile tug at my lips. "You're an asshole."

"And you're an idiot. Why did you try and talk to him in the first place? You must have known it wouldn't be fun."

I pick at the skirting board. "Because I'm an idiot. And I wasn't expecting a tearful reunion, but… not that, either."

"Hang on." I hear him walk away from his end of the line, a couple of distant clunks and then returning footsteps.

"What was that?"

"I was getting a drink. I'm too sober for this." I laugh softly, and note the swishing noise of liquor as he swigs from whatever he's holding. "Right. Where were we?"

"I'm an idiot."

"Oh, right. No you're not, you're just thick sometimes."

"Most of the time."

"Compromise for fifty/fifty?"

"Done."

"Good. Anyway. He's out of your life now, girl. Don't waste time worrying about him."

"Did you listen to what I told you? I told him to piss off and stay away from me."

"Yeah, but I know you. You're the girl who tried to die for some complete strangers, remember? Hell, you slept with me and that's practically charity. You care too much to let him go so easy."

"I didn't sleep with you out of charity," I mumble. "You may not have noticed it, but I actually like you quite a lot."

"Stop trying to change the subject," he replies. "You're not going to be okay, Lazuli, not for a while. But you can't let it show. You're dependent on the Capitol now, and if they don't like you, if you start being miserable and stop being charming, they'll send you back to One and you'll have a lynch mob for a welcoming party."

"Right."

"Denna," he says, urgency creeping into his voice. "Promise me to keep pretending you're okay."

"Fine."

"Say it!"

"Alright, alright! I promise!"

"Good." He sounds relieved.

"Haymitch?"

"What now?"

"Do- do you really think I care too much?"

He hesitates. "Yes. I think you do stupid things and you never think before you act, and yes, you care too much, and that means you get hurt too easily, which is why you need me to stop you getting yourself killed. But don't you dare try and change, girl. You care enough for the both of us, which is good because I don't care at all. I think about doing things and I never do them because it's easier to just give up, and I drink and I get angry and I need you Denna, I need you around to keep me alive."

There's a leaden pause. "That was actually quite romantic," I tell him.

"No it wasn't. Shut up."

"Had you been planning that? It sounded planned."

"No. I hate you."

"I bet you had it written down and everything."

"I'm hanging up now. I'm going to sleep!"

"Love you too!" I call, as the line goes dead.


	15. Chapter 15

I have been so self-absorbed in trying to forget my own Games that I didn't even remember the sixty-first until they're already upon us. I turn on the television screen one morning to the jarring image of District One's reaping, and the remote falls from my hand to clatter onto the floor.

I stand transfixed, as a rabbit does in sudden mortal light, and watch this year's Careers step forward, to rounds of applause. Memories of my own reaping flood back- I was so naïve! I thought I could change things- the Games, the Capitol. In the end, the only thing that changed was me. That's the cruelty of them; you cannot win. You just lose in a different way.

I don't want to watch this, not in the least. I stoop to pick up the remote, and the screen goes black. I don't want to see the families of those I killed, let die, again. I don't want to see Haymitch alone in Twelve, with two more tributes he cannot save.

It turns out I have been invited to a party to celebrate all of this, an invite I obviously cannot refuse. My old prep team, as they always do now for things like this, come to design me for the evening, with the now-familiar revealing dresses and seductive makeup. I ask them if they are attending this evening, and they are delighted to tell me they are- practically everyone involved in the Games is, including mentors of this year's tributes- although, they assure me, only once their wards have been safely tucked away in the Training Centre. Like children who have nothing to worry about except the monsters under the bed. I hope Haymitch is too drunk to attend- I cannot explain _why _I don't want to see him, just that whenever I think about a meeting it fills me with unexplained dread.

I am smuggled away to one of the many ballrooms in the Capitol, and climb out of the car to have cameras fixated upon me. I have never seen footage of this in One, but by this point everyone's television is switched off as they celebrate or mourn.

The dress- black, with a v-neckline that plunges to my navel and a slit up the centre- drags on the floor behind me in a manner I have yet to become accustomed to. Inside the high-ceilinged room, I recognise many of the faces and nod to them in greeting, before being dragged away to be introduced to someone. I dance and drink the alcohol offered to me, but stop after a glass- I do not want a repeat of Twelve on the Victory Tour. The food looks appetising, but I eat very little, as I doubt I could keep it down. It's late when a feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around to see a face I was not expecting.

"Chaff!" I cry out, flinging my arms around him. He chuckles and pulls me into the hug, and I feel his good arm and stump press into my back. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Outlying district mentors don't normally come," he tells me, leaning back and smiling widely. "I left Seeder with the kids- oh, of course, you've never met her. Seeder's the other Eleven mentor- she wasn't here last year, she was too pregnant."

I laugh, then sober. "How are they taking it?"

He shrugs. "They're terrified- they don't expect to win, not considering last year's couldn't with a Career protecting them." I wince. "Sorry. But this year they don't have a hope, so I've mainly got the job of preparing them for the shit they're going to go through."

"What about Twelve?"

"Haymitch was paralytic by the time I saw them. Poor bastards." We walk to the dance floor and begin to waltz, his stump resting on my hip. "He's not here tonight, obviously."

I shake my head. "I wouldn't expect him to be. I wish there was something I could do to help, Chaff."

His brows lower. "There is," he says, slowly. "You can sponsor them, if you want."

I stare at him, surprised. "Victors can do that?"

"There's no law stopping it. I don't think it's common, especially for districts other than your own, but you're not exactly a common victor anyway, are you?"

I smile. "I guess not. How do I do it?"

"Come find Seeder and me, or Haymitch for Twelve, once they start. We'll be in the-"

"Training Centre," I finish for him. "I'll come… the second day of the Games?"

He nods. "You won't get much of a chance after that; you'll get snapped up by Caesar and the rest by day three, and after that…" this time, he doesn't have to finish. I know he's not sure they will survive that long.

The song finishes; he walks me off the floor. "I'll see you soon," I tell him.

He kisses me on the cheek. "I'll look forward to it. Oh, and Denna, while you're here, try to make some allies among the other victors."

"Why?"

"They've been through what we have," he informs me, "and some of them aren't as bad as you think." He winks at me and leaves.

Deciding to take his advice I spend the rest of the evening talking to Mags, a woman from Four with gray hair and kind eyes. She talks softly, and congratulates me on my victory- as I do for hers, although I think it was before I was born. We quickly move onto other subjects- her grandson has just turned a year old, she tells me delightedly. This is particularly significant as once a baby has reached this milestone, they are far less likely to die of illness and infection and have a greater chance of making it to adulthood. When the clock strikes midnight, we bid each other farewell and go our separate ways. I made it through the evening, and when I return home to my empty apartment- after visiting a "lover" in the eastern quarter- the tears that come are less than I was expecting, the nightmares less harsh than they could have been.

%

A few days later, the day after the Games have begun, I find myself pressing the button for the penthouse of the Training Centre. The elevator glides upwards, creating a swooping sensation in my stomach which does not help the nervousness that already resides there. Thankfully, it is a woman with slightly lighter than Chaff's and- I swallow at the memory- Ash &amp; Willow's- who greets me, kissing me on the cheek.

"You must be Seeder," I say.

She smiles- it's a beautiful smile, making her eyes crinkle up. "And you're Denna. It's lovely to meet you."

"You too," I reply. "Congratulations on your child."

"Thank you, my darling." Her voice is soft, and she is well-spoken, unlike Chaff's rough accent. "Please do come in."

Chaff raises his stump at me, and I wave my mechanical fingers in return, which makes him laugh. And behind him- my insides twist uncomfortably- is Haymitch, holding a bottle of whisky and scowling. His expression doesn't change when I meet his eye, and apart from that he doesn't acknowledge my presence.

I feel Seeder's hand press into my back, guiding me to the dining table. "Gentlemen, if you'd care to join us," she calls back to them, throwing a warning glance at Haymitch. Reluctantly, he follows Chaff and sits down across from Seeder, as far from me as he can reasonably manage. Chaff is opposite me.

"What now?" I ask.

"Well, normally we just take people's money and ignore what they want to do with it, seeing as they don't normally have a clue," Chaff tells me, humour in his voice. "But seeing as you probably remember your Games better than we do any of ours, you might as well help decide what you're paying for."

"Did they get anything at the Cornucopia yesterday?" I query. "What's the Arena like?"

"You didn't watch it yesterday?" Haymitch shoots at me. I shake my head, and he snorts humourlessly.

"Behave," Seeder says sharply, before turning back to me. "It's swamp, warm in the day and cool at night, and no, they didn't manage to get anything. Eleven have stuck together, but Twelve split up. Try not to think too expensive- we don't want to attract attention to them having a wealthy sponsor for no clear reason, and besides, this money has to go between the four of them."

"Matches," I suggest, remembering our bitterly cold first night.

"The wood they find will be damp," Chaff reminds me, "and there's very little coverage if they do manage to make a fire." I purse my lips.

"If heat's a priority, send them extra layers," Haymitch says suddenly. Everyone turns to look at him. "Gloves, hoods. Nothing too big."

"That's… a pretty good idea, actually," admits Seeder, pulling out a computer screen and tapping it. She passes it to me. "Fill in the details and the amount you want to give. The prices of supplies are along the side."

"No need to act so surprised, Seeder," mutters Haymitch, and taking a swig from the bottle. "I function perfectly well without you having to babysit me."

"That's debatable," Chaff retorts, plucking the bottle from his fingers and finishing it off himself. I pass the screen back to Seeder.

"Excellent," she mutters. "Haymitch, are you not going to give her the one for Twelve?"

Mutely, he slides another screen across to me. I fill it in as I did before and spin it back to him, matching his silence.

"Chaff, we had better go," Seeder tells her partner. "We have things to do."

"Do we?" he asks, surprised, and then falters as he sees her expression. "I mean. Um. Yes, we do." And with that, he hurries after her into the elevator, leaving me alone with Abernathy. There is a heavy pause, then we both speak at once.

"Stop ignoring me," we both say, then I falter.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "Well, this is awkward."

"Well, I didn't want to see you," I mutter, folding my arms.

"Why?"

"I… I don't know," I admit, looking down. "It's obvious you don't want me here anyway."

"I'm drunk, and a horrible person. I don't want _anyone_ here. Don't take it personally."

"Oh," I mumble, still staring at my feet. "Okay then."

"In fact, that's probably why you didn't want to come. I'm terrible company."

I look up and smile at him. "That'll be it," I say. "So you're not mad at me?"

"Why would I be mad at you? I'm probably less angry at you than I am at anyone else."

"Thanks… I think."

His lip curls, and he skids a shot glass across the table at me. "Figured out why you were giving me the cold shoulder yet?"

I take the glass and wrinkle my nose at the strong fumes rising from it. "I think… I thought you wouldn't want to see me," I say.

"What?" he asks, leaning back on his chair and propping his feet up on the table.

"I figured you'd be jealous," I say in a rush, only realizing that's what I'd thought as I say it, "that I'm sleeping with every other person in the Capitol and not-"

"Me?"

I sit there with my cheeks burning, and nod.

He laughs. "Darling, you overestimate my ability to care about shit like that."

"Really?"

"I mean-" he knocks back the last of the bottle- "not that a teenage girl having to get screwed by people twice her age-"

"You're about a decade older than me-"

"-_Without_ getting any say in the matter isn't a basically fucked up thing, but… I'm not _jealous_ of them."

"Oh."

He pulls another liquor bottle out of seemingly nowhere. "You're assuming that I, too, have the emotional instability of a teenage girl," he continues, the perfect picture of nonchalance, leaning back on his chair like that. I hate to admit it, but it's kind of attractive that he's smart enough to run rings around me like this- and that he has the nerve to do it.

"Okay," I say, "you can stop making me feel like an idiot now."

"But it's _fun_," he replies, smirking.

I shake my head. "You're such a piece of shit," I laugh, and he winks. It's easy to forget why we're here when we talk like this- that is, of course, until I remember. I look down and dip my right thumb into the liquor glass.

"I'm sorry," I say, running my thumb along the brim until it sings.

"Why?"

"That you have to go through this alone. That I couldn't get you another victor- another mentor."

"I've got you," he says, "that's enough."

I grin. "Are you _flirting_ with me, Haymitch Abernathy?"

He stands up, swaying a little, and walks away from me to his room. "That depends," he says over his shoulder, "on whether or not it's working."

"Oh," I laugh, standing up and following him. "Absolutely." I jog the last couple of steps to catch up with him, grab his collar and pull him against me.

I've got better at this since I last saw him; I kiss him just strong enough to part his lips with mine, and I'm a little surprised that he doesn't resist. But now I know what I'm doing, whereas before was my first time, and I was entirely reliant on Haymitch. Now, I can tease just the right reactions out of him- just by kissing. I can feel the curve of his smile against my own lips, hot and stained with spirits, and his hands slipping underneath my shirt to find bare skin.

He moves his lips to rest against my ear. "What are you thinking?" he asks.

"Well," I reply, "it's quite explicit."

%

When I see Twelve's tributes die, the same day they formed an alliance only to be torn apart by mutts, I make my way to the Training Centre so fast I barely notice the journey. He's stood in the centre of the penthouse, liquor dripping down the wall where he's thrown the bottle, the screen still playing, showing a tribute from Five run from the Careers. I pick up the remote and switch it off, but he doesn't turn away from it.

"Haymitch?" I ask, softly. He bows his head and I walk towards him. He doesn't respond until I lay my hand- the intact one- on his shoulder, when he turns around.

He looks like he is barely hanging on, his eyes reddened with drink and emotion. I cannot bear to think of him having to go through this every year, alone. I wrap my arms around him and he sags against me. I can't support his weight so I just kneel on the floor with him, his body shaking with suppressed sobs. His hands are gripping tight enough to form bruises on my back and I can do nothing but hold him, hold him until the first savage wave of grief passes. He's still quite young, really- too young to be dealing with this alone. I hate to imagine what it was like the first year he was a mentor, his first time experiencing the guilt of a survivor watching those you should have kept alive get torn apart in front of you.

"Oh, Haymitch," I murmur, pushing his overgrown hair back from his face and kissing his forehead. "It's oka-" I stop myself, because this is not okay, it will never be anywhere _near_ okay. What can I possibly say to comfort him?

"I'm here," I say simply.

%%%

**A/N thank you melliemoo, WeSayNotToday, Guest and love-peace-hugs for reviewing the last couple of chapters, you lovely people. Also, a psa- Half Life by Trocadero is the Haymitch song to end all Haymitch songs. That, and it has a JAMMIN guitar solo at the end. Thank y'all for your support and as always, continue to follow/fav/review X**


	16. Chapter 16

**HOLD UP- this chapter has as close to smut as I'm going to get in it, so be warned. It's the last paragraph before the break, if you want to skip it x**

%%%

I'm surprised I manage to last two years without the Capitol being allowed to alter me surgically. Even when I go to the clinic to meet the blue-skinned man who will be operating on me, I am not expecting the results to be so simple- although I suppose they want to keep me as close as possible to the girl who won the Games. My waist is going to be narrowed, skin repolished, and they are going to increase the size of my chest- not drastically, they assure me, but just enough. I try not to fret about how much "enough" actually is. It's then that he asks me if I want any "artistic enhancements".

I think of the outrageous things I have seen, on every body part you can imagine- and a few you wouldn't want to. Embedded jewels, bones extended so your joints stick out in sharp points, skin of every unnatural hue, overlarge facial features, pointed ears, tattoos of every design…

What I end up with is difficult to see, which is good if I want to remain similar to how I was before. The first person to notice it is Haymitch, who I see about a week later, at the approaching finale of the 62nd Games. The two tributes from Twelve had died during the initial bloodbath, which had surprised even some of the Capitol. They were merchant's kids, Haymitch had told me. Well fed, strong enough to stand a chance. Apparently, a chance had not been enough.

Anyway, I'm beginning to doze off in his bed in the Training Centre, his arm heavy over my side, when I feel a light pressure on the lowest joint of my right middle finger; Haymitch is tracing the tattoo with his thumb. It's a twelve pointed star, in white pigment so it looks like delicate scarring during the day, but it's a special kind of ink; at night, it glows softly in the darkness.

"Pretty," he murmurs. "Twelve points for the districts?"

"Mmhmm," I reply, groggily. "Is that the first time you've ever said pretty?"

"Probably. Not really my kind of word."

I smile. I like him like this- he barely ever sleeps at night, but while awake he's always much quieter, less volatile. And, on occasion, even-dare I say it- sweet? Besides, it might be the only place where I feel safe- I daren't let myself sleep in someone else's home, and there's nobody to stop the nightmares in my own apartment. But here, when I wake up screaming, there's someone to remind me the Arena is in the past.

"Why star?" he asks, his lips on the back of my neck making me shiver despite the warmth.

"Ash taught me stargazing in the Arena," I say, then swallow. It's been over a year since I last said his name. "It's… for them, I guess. So I don't forget."

"I doubt you would have done anyway," he says, and I shrug. "It's not the only thing they did to you either, is it?"

I bite my lip. "You noticed?"

He shifts his arms in order to hold my waist, his fingers crossing over each other. "Couldn't have done that before," he explains. "Also…"

"Yeah, yeah," I say, grabbing his hand and moving it back down to my waist.

"You okay with it?" he asks me.

"Not really. But I don't care enough to make a fuss." I sit up, feeling somewhat self-conscious. "And it isn't exactly the worst thing that's happened to me. Do you… do you have a problem with it?"

He sits up next to me and I rest my head on his shoulder. "Only if you do." He leans over me and grabs a bottle of moonshine off the table, and pulls the stopper off with his teeth. "It's your body, Lazuli. You should be the only one deciding stuff about it." He takes a swig of liquor.

"Good answer," I tell him, and he smirks. And I truly am grateful that he doesn't interfere, for the same reason that, although I don't much like how he drinks, I'm never going to try and stop him. It's our own business.

I take the bottle from his hand and place it back on the table, pulling him back down on top of me. "Where were we?"

His hands slip down, along my hips and splaying across my thighs. In turn I wrap my arms around his neck and pull my torso up against his, skin pressed against skin. I hook one leg around his waist, writhe up and his fingers slip upwards; I bite my lip as shivers run through me, digging my fingers into his back. Then his arms move downwards to my knees and my heartbeat slows, before he kisses my collarbone, my sternum, working his way down past my navel- I push him over so I'm straddling him, and he runs his hands around and upwards, over my back and holding me on top of him, making me tilt my head back and moan. I grip his shoulders to steady myself, and a rhythm slowly emerges, quickening with each breath.

"Really, Lazuli," he manages to say, "you'd think you do this for a living."

_%_

_In dreams, we cannot lie to ourselves. All the suppressed thoughts, fears and secrets come tumbling out of your subconscious, desperate to be noticed._

_In my dream, I am in Eden, a dagger pinning down each hand and two more driven through my knees. The sky above me is pitch black, starless, like it is above the Capitol. But my view of it is blocked by Gleam, who sneers at me as he spins his knife between his fingers._

_"Ready, doll?" he asks, then begins to carve chunks of flesh out of my sides._

_I try to scream, but he has hacked out my tongue like an Avox- instead, I cough up blood. He carefully, lovingly takes the pieces and arranges them over my breasts, instead. I begin to cry, but it is still more blood, tinting everything I see red. My arms are no longer pinned, it appears, but instead are made of a fusion of metal and plastic- I go to lift them, to push him away, but nothing happens. These contraptions are not mine to command, and instead I am powerless as Gleam begins to take off his clothes._

I wake up screaming, choking on the fear, scrambling up and grasping the bedsheets in panic. My heart lurches as I realize I can feel nothing in my left hand, and remembering that it is bionic, like I was in the nightmare, does not help. I stop screaming and start gasping for breath, gulping in lungfuls of strangely bloodless air. What happened to the blood? Where has it gone? Has he drained me dry, litres of it pouring out of my sides and fingers and eyes and mouth-

"Denna! _Denna!_"

I feel arms wrap around my own and kick out, feet meeting nothing but more silky cloth. It takes seconds of struggling to realize the arms are not Gleam's.

"They won't leave me alone, Haymitch," I sob, collapsing against him. His grip on me loosens- he's held me down like this since I asked him to last year, having hit him before, not knowing who he was. Another time, I lashed out and broken a bottle, and shards of glass had embedded themselves in my hand. This way, neither of us gets hurt. "I want them to stop I want them to stop touching me I want them to leave me alone-"

"Shh," he pushes my hair back from my sweaty forehead and rocks me back and forth as I hide my face in his shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. It's okay, I've got you."

Two weeks later the victors have returned to their own districts, and I am alone again for another year.

%%%

**A/N Thank you WeSayNotToday and melliemoo for reviewing, and the new follows/favs! Kind of a short chapter, just filler I guess. The next one will be much longer, I promise. Until then, read on and let me know what you think x**


	17. Chapter 17

I eye the brightly colored pills warily; they look innocent enough, but I don't trust anything a Capitolite offers me. The room we are in is dark, lit only by the fire, and filled with slumped, heavily breathing bodies, slick with sweat. The air is stuffy, and stinks of sex.

"Normally," I explain to my client, "people don't expect me to…"

"You'll recover," he assures me, "and it'll just be like you're dreaming."

I chew my nails. After my father and his morphling addiction, you normally couldn't get me to touch substances like this with a ten-foot pole. But I need this man to trust me- he's deputy Head Gamemaker, and if I can get him to tell me things about what's planned for the Hunger Games next year then maybe the Twelve and Eleven mentors will be at an advantage. And maybe… it would be nice, to escape Panem for a while.

"Fine," I say, "but only because it's you." I kiss him, biting his lip a little, and he presses the pills into my hand as I do. "And no lasting effects?"

"Not if it's your first time, no."

I take a deep breath, and neck the pills.

_Seven inch stiletto heels clack against the featureless floor as I turn, a dagger in each hand. The seemingly endless white room I am in clashes with my clothes- black and tight, barely covering anything- and my hair, which flutters despite the stillness of the air. But both of my hands are whole, so I must be dreaming._

_"Murderer." I spin around and reflexively throw the dagger- it embeds itself in the heart of the boy from Six, who already has blood and intestines spilling out from under his shirt. As he falls face-first onto the ground, an invisible, intangible audience applauds me._

_"Stop it," I say, and the noise dies down as I cross to the boy and push him over with my foot, then bend down and yank the dagger from his chest. I catch his sightless gaze and cannot pull myself away from it until-_

_"Murderer!" A voice spits, which I have not heard for years. I don't want to see him, I don't want to turn around- but I have to._

_"Jed," I whisper, but my voice is somehow loud enough to echo, "I'm sorry, I didn't-"_

_Blood stains his clothes, leeching outwards; his bones twist and snap as they did when he fell against the rocks. "You did this," he chokes, and as his mangled corpse falls to the ground the cheering begins again._

_I know what's coming next- the kid's screaming of what the two before him said to me is cut short as, without looking, I fling a blade behind me. I don't need to look to know I hit my mark, but the sounds of someone choking on blood confirms my aim was true._

_The cheering gets louder; this is wonderful entertainment._

_"Murderer," a new voice says, and I close my eyes._

_"No," I beg, shaking my head, "not her, please, I never killed her…"_

_"Your fault," says Willow, and I feel a tiny hand grab my wrist, as cold as ice. "Your fault." With strength she should not have, the girl wrenches my arm sideways, and I scream as pain shoots up my arm. With my free hand I lash out without thinking, and the blade catches her neck, ripping it open._

_"Willow," I sob, clutching her to my chest as red pours from the wound, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-"_

_A fist connects with the side of my head and the crowd roars as I drop her body and fall on my side, white lights of agony popping in front of my vision. As my sight clears Ash appears in front of me, crouched and snarling. I've dropped my daggers and scramble out of the way as he lunges at me._

_"You killed her!" he roars, "you sick bitch!"_

_I roll backwards, over my head, and use the momentum to jump onto my feet- a flashy fighting trick taught to Careers to impress the viewing audience. I roll my head and my neck clicks, but while my body is ready to fight, I am not._

_"Ash, you don't have to do this," I say, but he swings another punch. I duck beneath it, grab his wrist and twist his arm behind him, then bring my knee up between his legs and into his groin. As he doubles over I release his wrist and slam both hands over his ears, stunning him, then spin and drive my elbow into his skull._

_Somehow after that he's still standing and he turns to face me, but I block his strikes easily with my forearms, grab both his wrists and pull myself up, then drive both feet into the centre of his chest. The heels don't puncture his skin but he falls backwards to the floor, and I know I cannot let him get back up- I straddle him and punch his face, over and over again, my knuckles miraculously remaining unburst._

_When he stops moving and his face is unrecognisable, I stand up. "Hi, Cossie," I say, knowing it will be her who appeared next. I don't want to wring her neck, don't want to feel her vertebrae snapping against my arms. Willow's blood runs between my breasts and I wipe it away- the crowd goes wild at the simple movement._

_But it's already done; Cossie's head is facing the wrong way in relation to her body. With her back to me and dull eyes staring into mine, she begins to approach me, stumbling as she tries to walk backwards._

_It's terrifying- worse than anything I have ever seen or experienced, except maybe that first night with Aedile. But I find myself reaching out to this horrific, broken girl, and when she's close enough she falls into my arms, her body feeling all wrong and her limbs spasming a little. I hold her until she's still then lay her on the floor, on her side with her head facing away from me. Weapons sit innocently a few feet away from me as if they have always been there- I pick up the daggers, sword and crossbow, and ready myself for the finale._

_As Ula approaches, body slim yet curving in a way mine never was without surgery, I don't bother trying to get her down first- I just sidestep her as she charges towards me and drive a blade into her head, letting it go as she collapses to the ground. When she's close enough, I take Tyro down with a single shot from the crossbow, and use both hands to grip the sword and take Crassus' head off with it- it rolls towards me, and I rest one foot on top of it as I wait for Gleam._

_For a moment, I see myself in the eyes of the audience- beautiful, sexualised, deadly, and entirely for their benefit. Nothing existing in my life outside of the Games._

_"Come on then!" I yell, and suddenly the world is silent. "Where are you, you coward?"_

_"Here," a voice whispers in my ear, and a body presses into me from behind._

_I am trapped by Gleam's arms, but there's enough room to turn and face him- he's already dead, blood dried around the underside of his jaw where I stabbed him in the Arena. But he's moving, grayish skin stretching as he leers, and metal-cold lips crash against mine. I struggle but he pins me down on the floor, crawling on top of me with irregular movements, burying his face in my neck and slipping a hand beneath the material of my clothes._

I scream, loud enough to wake myself up.

I'm back in my client's house; he's lying on the floor next to me, a glazed yet happy expression on his face. I run my hands over my body, checking for blood and clench my teeth against another scream, drenched in buckets of cold sweat and shivering despite the stuffy room I am in. He said it was like dreaming, and I should have realized that I only have nightmares.

My hands are shaking so badly I can barely gather my things together. Nothing could make me stay here for a second longer though, not with this man who takes drugs so easily while I am trapped in a state of terror beside him. As I stand up the room spins, and I lean against the wall as I stagger out of his house, into the car I hired to wait for me. I can't sit up; I wrench the door open and collapse into the back seat, curling up against the leather and trying to come into contact with as little as possible, since my skin burns whenever something touches it.

"You alright, Miss?" asks the driver, glancing back at me. I nod, grinding my teeth too much to speak.

The journey to my apartment passes in a blur, and I find myself collapsed on my bed without fully remembering how I got there. I must have been here for hours too, since the sun has fully risen and my throat feels like sandpaper from not having drunk anything for so long. As I drag myself to the kitchen and stick my mouth under the tap, I realize I am achingly tired- the only thing keeping me from falling asleep right now is the terror of what will happen if I do. I should call someone to keep me company, or at least so that if I do doze off they can remind me where I am when I wake up, but for someone so supposedly "popular" there is nobody in the Capitol I can call.

I am alone; I must deal with the nightmares myself.

%

"Haymitch?"

"Yeah?"

"What are your nightmares like?"

Neither of us wanted to sleep; we're sat on top of the dining room table in level 12 of the Training Centre, playing cards. I'm terrible at it, which seems to amuse him. The year apart from him and the other victors was almost unbearable, but it's slowly getting easier. I'm learning to hide my emotions.

He drains his glass and stares at his cards as he considers the question. "Why do you want to know?" he asks.

I shrug. "Because I want to know why you can't sleep at night."

He laughs shortly. "None of your business."

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," I offer. "And it's supposed to help. Apparently, you can't have the same dream twice if you tell someone about it."

He lays down his cards- a double onion. I look down at my own pitiful excuse for a hand and sigh.

He deals some more cards off the deck. "You remember my Arena?" he asks, and I nod.

"It was… it was like a paradise, wasn't it?"

He snorts. "Everything in it was poison. You couldn't trust anything in it- all of it would kill you, save the rain and the food from the Cornucopia and sponsors. And I guess that messed me up more than I thought. Fold?"

"Stick," I tell him, wanting him to get back to what he was saying.

"It's like- normal stuff, you know? Say there's a drink. And I'll take it, because I don't realize it isn't real, and the liquor turns into something that burns from the inside out. Or I'll be walking through Twelve and-" he swallows "- mockingjays will start attacking, like the hummingbirds in the Arena. People turn into mutts. That's why I sleep with a knife. Because I've woken up in a dream before, and everything's normal for a few seconds, then- you can imagine. I can't trust my own senses."

That must be awful, I think, not knowing what's real and what isn't. Maybe that's why I don't see him sleep; he doesn't want to mistake me for a mutt.

"Your turn," he reminds me, refilling his glass with amber liquid.

"I…" I tap out chords absent-mindedly on the table with my left hand. "Different stuff. Always either in the Arena or someone's bedroom that I've been to. A lot of my nightmares aren't that different to what happens when I'm awake." I've got a wild royal, I notice, and rearrange my hand accordingly. "There's a couple of recurring things, though. A lot of blood. A lot of hands, and people tying me up, or not being able to move."

"And?" Haymitch asks, noticing I'm holding something back. I shiver as I remember the narcotics-induced hallucination of a few months ago.

"You know Cossie had her, um, had her neck broken? Well she's watching me in some of my dreams. Most of them, actually. And she- her body's facing away from me, but her head's twisted round so that she's looking at me. She just stands there and watches with her head the wrong way round. She's smiling sometimes, like she thinks I deserve the other stuff that happens." I clench my teeth and convince myself she's not in the room with us now. _She's dead_, I think_, dead and buried._ But the drugs I took had a lasting effect, despite what my client said; and it's her.

There's a pause. "Creepy," Haymitch says eventually.

I shrug. "I guess that's one word for it."

"Denna," he says slowly, "you know they're just dreams, right? They can't hurt you."

"Bullshit!" I cry out. "You sleep with a knife, Abernathy, a knife and a bottle. You think you're not hurt, not damaged? We're broken. The Games broke us, and the dreams stop us from fixing. You must have figured that out by now."

"I live in a state of denial," he tells me, emptying his glass again. He checks the bottle, but it's empty.

I shake my head at him. "You know what? Never mind." I throw my cards down on the table and slide off onto my feet, storming away. I hear a thud as Haymitch stumbles after me.

"Calm down, doll." He seizes my wrist but I turn and wrench it from his grasp.

"What?!"

"Listen to me. It's easier to pretend than admit that something's wrong. Because even if it is, what the hell can I do about it? Even if I could, if I could tear apart the damn Capitol and their Arenas, it wouldn't stop the nightmares."

I think of how I feign affection for my so-called lovers, because otherwise they get angry. Either way, I still end up in the same position, but the latter way just hurts more.

"You're right, Denna. Of course you are. But you can't expect me to agree with you."

"Fine," I snap, "but don't call me doll."

He narrows his eyes at me. "At least there's one decent person out of the two of us."

I can't deal with this, not tonight. "How many people did you kill?" I ask him, and he stiffens.

"What?"

"How many, Abernathy?"

"Three," he tells me, without needing to think. "Two from District Four, and the girl from One."

"Seven," I counter. "I murdered seven people, and I did it out of- out of _rage_. I didn't have to, it wasn't like you- I didn't need to kill any of them to help one of the others win, but I did, and there were half as many people in my Arena as there were in yours. So don't you fucking _dare _act like I'm a better person you are, Haymitch, because I'm not, I'm a murderer. It wasn't even survival."

He doesn't argue; I'm right, and I hate it. "What do you want me to tell you, Denna? That yeah, the nightmares work? That we're all fucked up and should've died, just because you wanted to?" His voice rises to a yell. "You want Mags dead? Or Chaff and Seeder? What about me?" He slams a fist against his chest. "Should I've just bled out?"

"Yes- no! I don't know, okay?! I just don't want _this_!" I press my left hand to my mouth, metal cool against my flushed skin, because I am _not _going to break down. "Seven people, Haymitch. Seven kids."

He shakes his head. "Trust me, Lazuli, it doesn't get any easier."

"So you pretend it does."

He shrugs one shoulder. "Easier for everyone."

"It's wrong that you should," I say, anger adding strength to my voice as I shift from raging at him to at the Capitol. "It's bad enough that people are put through this, but then they have to _glamorize _it, make us feel like we're lucky to be alive! And then they send the victors back to their districts, to watch the people around them starve and suffer. It's sick!"

"There's my little revolutionary," he smiles lopsidedly, and pulls me against him. This sudden display of affection strikes me as a little out of character, until he whispers "don't talk like that where they can hear you. You're not out of the Games yet, remember? Don't make them think you're dangerous."

"So what?" I reply, blood boiling. "Snow kills me, if he's got the nerve to deprive the Capitol of their new favourite toy. Works for me."

"Don't," he says sharply, leaning back and taking my face in both his hands. "Don't you dare."

"Nobody I give a damn about's gonna miss me, Haymitch!"

"I will!"

"Oh." My stomach drops out of me and I stare at the floor, red fog clearing. _Idiot_, I think.

"Just-" he struggles to find the words "-be careful, okay? Don't trust anything they give you for a while."

"When d'you leave?" I ask him.

"Tomorrow."

"Oh," I say again, and his hands drop to my shoulders.

"Get some sleep, Denna. I'll see you next year."

I finally look up at him, and he kisses my forehead. "Good luck with the nightmares, Twelve."

"You too, One."

%%%

**A/N Thank you to melliemoo, SpinningDreams and Guest for your reviews! I have less than three weeks until my first exam, so what am I doing? Not revising, that's what. Keep follow/fav/reviewing you lovely people x oh, and shit's really gonna hit the fan next chapter...**


	18. Chapter 18

I do as Haymitch said and keep my head down, but it doesn't stop the invite to tea with the President arriving on my doorstep one morning.

This is it, I think wildly, running my hand over the filigree on the card. This is how I die. I'm scared, I realize- not scared of the death itself, but of how it will happen. How little effect it will have, with the President's people covering it up. How it will mean nothing. But what can I do? I can't run and besides, fleeing has never been my nature. If I stand stoic and refuse, I will most likely be shot in the head. No, I have to attend, I have to look my murderer in the eyes as the last of my life leaves me. I will face him.

Because it is such an important person I am meeting, my prep team arrives to make sure I am perfect. The cream-colored dress is a little more reserved than what I usually wear, since sex is not on the agenda for once. Instead, this will be my death suit- a little drab for my liking, but I'm sure my blood staining it will add some much needed color. My hair is poker straight and hangs, almost shroud like, across my shoulders and down to my waist.

The thud of my heels on floorboards, the metal of a car, cobblestones, and then before I know it they are muffled by a thick white carpet. I am guided by Avox after Avox through opulent corridors, and wonder if they will carry my body out this way too, or by the servants' back corridors.

"Miss Lazuli," says President Snow, rising from his chair as I enter the room. I am completely calm and detached, not spitting with rage as I was on the last night of my Games. He kisses the hand I offer him and guides me to two chairs with a coffee table in the middle, holding a single pot of tea and two cups. I glance down at the fingers he kissed- there is a spot of blood on them.

Not wanting to blemish the dress yet, I wipe my hand on the crimson upholstery of the chair. "How have you been, sir?"

"Everything is running as smoothly as I could hope for," he replies, "thank you for your interest. Would you care for a drink?"

"Yes, please." Poison- that's how Snow kills, one of my clients told me. Undoubtedly, the tea is laden with it. "Two sugars."

"Sweet tooth," he comments, and I smile. "How have you enjoyed the Capitol?"

"You have been nothing but generous to me," I reply. "I had no idea that I could ever be so loved."

"Hm." He pours out the tea, and hands a cup to me.

The moment my skin touches the china, I realize I am not ready to die. Not like this, not after having not said goodbye to those I need to. Not at a hand which is not my own, not from something like poison, which is a coward's weapon. Not when everything is running as smoothly as the President could hope for.

No, when I die, I'll be doing my best to drag him down with me.

I glance at the ornate carriage clock on the mantelpiece to our right. "Goodness, is that the time?" I gasp, rising, and drop the cup- it hits the edge of the table and shatters, and hot tea splashes against my legs. "I have an appointment."

"I'm sure it can be missed," says Snow, and I could be imagining it, but there's a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

"It can't," I say, wringing my hands. "Marcus- Marcus Flintlock, that is- if he misses me, there'll be an uproar." Flintlock is the man effectively in charge of the Capitol's propaganda- if he stops working, Snow will no longer have the districts under his thumb. "He's besotted, you see- I doubt he'd cope if I went missing." It's a long shot for this to work- but I didn't get where I am today without long shots. Admittedly I never _wanted _to be where I am today, but still.

Snow smiles, but it's forced. "Of course he does. Like so many others, no doubt." He knows- not only that right now, I am too valuable to too many people to lose, but also that I know he poisons. And that means I am dangerous, and indispensable.

"So glad you understand. Sorry to cut this meeting short, but-"

"Go." I stride to the door. "And Miss Lazuli-"

I turn to look at him. "Yes, President Snow?"

He picks up his own cup, and drinks it in one. "Don't test me again," he says. "My patience is not unending, and nobody is as irreplaceable as they think they are." When he smiles this time it is genuine, and his teeth are smeared with scarlet blood.

My own blood runs cold, and bile stings my throat- but at least it isn't poison. I run down the corridors, years of toning my body meaning I have the balance not to fall in these ridiculous shoes, and practically slam into the door of the car.

The driver stares at me in the rear-view mirror- clearly, he was not expecting me to get in again. "Marcus Flintlock's house!" I pant, clutching at a stitch in my side. He doesn't move. "Now!"

The engine roars into life and we tear off along the half mile road to Flintlock's house. "Please be in, please be in, please be in," I mutter, jogging through his hallway and bursting into his study.

"Denna!" he looks up, eyes confused behind his glasses. I wonder why he wears them, since surgery to fix his sight would be easy to get for a man of his wealth and status. He stands up, and hurries round the desk. "What are you-"

"Shut up." I shove him backwards so he's sat on his desk, and my hands automatically go to his belt. "Unless you don't want me to be here," I add, raising an eyebrow but not bothering to look at him as I undo the buckle.

"Of course I do, but- I didn't send for you," he babbles.

I get on my knees and bat my eyelids at him. "Am I not allowed to want to see you?" I ask, looking up at him through my lashes, and he swallows.

"I guess not," he says, pulling down his trousers. I despise this man- some of my clients I am terrified of, some I am indifferent towards, some I even have a degree of affection for. But I feel nothing but disgust for this spineless wretch, who can only get laid by paying for it.

But for the first time in my life I am determined to stay alive, and I'll use anyone I can in order to achieve that.

The stitch I got when fleeing from Snow worries me, so every morning I start to go for a run instead of sleeping late. The Career tribute in me, which I cannot shake no matter how hard I try, will not allow my body to fall into disrepair, like what has happened with so many other victors. It's top story entertainment news in the Capitol; they called a panel of experts in to do a special evening television show that analyzed my figure, my motivation, and advised the viewers on how they too could get a perfect Victor's body.

Today is no different- my heart pounds as I jog down the boulevard gardens, people passing by in colourful blurs.

"Denna!" someone calls out as I approach them.

"Can'ttalktoobusysorrylovelytoseeyoubye!" I blaze past them.

I love running.

The time of day means that this more secluded end of the gardens is almost deserted, save for wildlife you tend not to get anywhere else. I grind to a halt as a squirrel crosses my path, tail quivering. I stay still as possible, not wanting to disturb it, and it cocks its head towards me.

"Denna!" someone declares for the second time today, clapping a hand on my shoulder. I shriek and turn to see Caesar Flickerman guffawing at me, wearing a sky blue day suit.

"Bloody hell, Caesar!" I pant, clutching a hand to my chest. Behind me, the squirrel bolts up a tree and out of sight. "You frightened the life out of me!"

"My apologies- I couldn't resist," he chuckles. "Long time no see, as they say."

"Indeed they do." I drag my forearm across my sweaty brow. "How are you?"

"All the better for seeing you, my dear."

"I would give you a hug, but I don't want to sweat all over your suit."

He laughs again. "Actually, I have a proposition for you."

I take a swig from my bottle of water, and steady my breathing. "Do tell."

"Well-" he walks to a bench and pats the space next to him. As I collapse down, he elaborates. "You are, by leaps and bounds, the most popular victor in recent years- not to mention the first to take up residence in the Capitol. Now you've settled in, I was wondering if I could interview you in your home, see how well accustomed you've become and so on- how someone from the districts views their experience in the Capitol."

I grimace. "I don't know, Caesar… I don't have the time, to be honest." No, I certainly have neither the time nor the inclination to let the Capitol into the one place I have any control over anymore.

The face of the Capitol takes a couple of seconds to think before replying. "It will remind people of you," he says, measuring every word, "of how important you are to them. And… you could do with the good press, if you sell yourself right. Put doubts out of everybody's minds."

_Caesar _knows the trouble I got into with Snow?! He must be more important than I thought. What's more, he wants to help me- I doubt that means he hates the Games and the Capitol as much as I do, but he's a people person- he likes me, and will do what he can to help me survive, just like he does when interviewing tributes. He's the face of the thing I hate most, but I can't help but like Caesar. Maybe that shows just how well the Capitol's propaganda works.

"Deal," I say, wiping my hand on my shorts before holding it out to him to shake.

I tidied my apartment before the camera crews arrived, but they give it a complete going over anyway, while my prep team make me up even more so than normal- temporary lapis-coloured streaks are put in my hair, inspired by my name, and my skin is dusted with almost microscopically small glitter. Translucent blue contact lenses turn my normally green irises a teal colour, which perfectly matches my necklace and bejewelled fingernails.

But the dress, the dress is a masterpiece- tight, royal blue silk, the top half wrapping around me like ribbons and accentuating my chest, the bottom half clinging to my thighs just tightly enough to show the outline of my suspenders. Up until now, I never knew blue could be such a sexy color- but I have somehow made it so.

I stare at my reflection in my bedroom mirror as my prep team add the final touches and struggle to recognize the ethereal being in front at me, who somehow manages to _stand _seductively. _I _certainly can't stand like that, surely. I am duck-footed and tense, and sunburnt across my nose and shoulders, but this creature is all flowing curves and tantalising flashes of alabaster skin. I reach out to her and she does to me, lips parted invitingly. Then the touch of the looking glass reminds me that I am her and she is me, in some impossible way. Is this how people see me? The Capitol, Haymitch- is this all they noticed when I tore the Careers apart in Eden?

Maybe if I drive a knife through my face, like I did to the girl from Two, all this would stop. If I doused my skin in boiling water, covered it with marbled scars. It's tempting, but then Snow would have no reason not to invite me round for another afternoon tea.

Two chairs are moved in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in my lounge, making the most of the natural light that comes through them. I'm stood with my forehead pressed against the glass when Caesar arrives, and this time we actually do hug.

"What a view," he remarks, following my gaze out of the window. "Somewhat daunting, what with this being a penthouse. I certainly won't be stepping any closer to it," he adds, and the room laughs.

"I like the fear kick you get looking out of it," I explain, sitting down next to him, "makes me feel alive."

"Spoken like a true Career," he smiles, and I notice the cameras are rolling. "Now, this is going to be an informal little chat between the two of us, but everybody's been hounding me with questions ever since I announced this."

"I'm flattered," I smile, "did you send them my love? I don't have time to get round everybody myself."

"Ha!" He rubs his hands together delightedly. "Now, to business- how has a girl of your talents settled into the jewel of Panem?"

"I wouldn't say I'm talented," I say, "no more so than anyone else if they spent their entire lives preparing themselves for the Games. It was hard work- but now I'm here, I can finally relax. It's wonderful." The last few words feel ugly in my mouth as I say them, and it's a sensation that doesn't leave for the rest of the interview.

%

Two hours later, the last red recording light blinks out, and everybody claps. "How was it?" I ask Caesar anxiously.

He leans forward and squeezes my hand reassuringly. "You were wonderful, my dear."

I exhale. "I owe you."

"Not at all, darling, not at all. Now I've got to be going, but the interview will be shown at eight tonight if you want to watch." He kisses my cheek and disappears in a puff of rose-scented perfume, the camera crew going soon after. As the door slams behind them I sag and rub my eyes, smudging my make up. I doze on the sofa for the rest of the day, too lightly for nightmares to reach me, before being jerked awake by the peal of the telephone.

Too tired to go to the dining room, I grab the cordless receiver off the side table with my feet. It's funny how I can run for miles without being as exhausted as I am now. "If you're selling anything, I don't want to buy it," I say, despite recognizing the number.

"Evening, Lazuli." Haymitch sounds amused. "What are you doing on my television?"

"Interview with Caesar," I say, stifling a yawn.

"Really? I had no idea."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," I remind him.

"So say those too stupid to understand it. Blue suits you, by the way."

"Thanks." I rub the hem of my dress between my right thumb and forefinger reflectively. "It's weird… I didn't recognise myself earlier. It's like, like I'm just this thing, y'know? I'm just clothes and make up."

"I have no idea what you're talking about- but if it makes you feel any better, I prefer you when you're not wearing anything."

"You sleazy bastard!" I grin. "Anyway, Flickerman figured I needed some good PR, after my regrettably brief meeting with the President."

"You _what_?"

"Relax, Twelve, we just cleared the air. I didn't even have time to drink my tea." I'm very aware that my line is most likely bugged, so I'm much more careful with my words than I have been in the past.

"You know what? I don't want to know."

"Probably wise," I say, arching my back. "How's the interview? I don't like watching myself."

"You're charming the entirety of Panem, and I don't think you've said anything that could piss someone off yet," he informs me. "Well done."

"Thanks. I owe Caesar for this, big time. Like, at _least _oral, a few times over."

That makes Haymitch completely lose his shit- I don't think I've ever heard him laugh so much. It's infectious too, and before long I'm in hysterics as well. I think it's the relief more than anything- I am no longer in the firing line, and I can feel the stress lift from my shoulders like it had been a body slung across them. For now, I am safe.


	19. Chapter 19

A few days before the Games begin, the morning after the chariots, I receive a summons- nothing new there. But this one is calling me to the penthouse of the Training Centre, which, since my own Games, I have not set foot in while the tributes are still residing in it too.

I go anyway, of course- as usual, Twelve's escort is nowhere to be seen as I step out of the elevator. Two tributes are sat on the sofa- the girl blonde and stout, the boy whippet thin and from the Seam, by the looks of it. They both look up to stare at me, and I freeze. They are similar to Jed and Cossie only in district, but that is still enough to throw me.

"You're early," Haymitch observes, wandering into view. I stride forward, grab his arm and yank him into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me.

"What the hell is all this about, Abernathy?" I demand, trying to get the memory of the two kids out of my head.

"Nice to see you too." He rubs his wrist. "The girl insisted she learn how to fight, and once the other one heard he wouldn't let go of it either."

"So why do you want me? This place is called a Training Centre for a reason." I'll do it, of course I will, but not without good reason. I know he'll have one- he wouldn't bring me to them otherwise- but knowing him, he won't be planning on telling me.

"Come on One, you know as well as I do that they're not going to learn anything there." He's right- although good for survival skills, the weapons and combat stations in the basement are useless if you aren't proficient in them already. They are there only to show off your skills, not improve them- yet another reason why the less favoured districts barely stand a chance.

"I don't get it," I say. "Why are you suddenly making an effort?"

"Is it that hard to believe I might be a semi-decent mentor?" he asks wryly.

"No, it- I know you, Haymitch. There's an ulterior motive."

"So what if there is?"

"Because I'm not a kid anymore," I argue, "I'm not a tribute, it is not up to _you _to make decisions for me-"

"Fine," he snaps, "she's the niece of my ally in the Quell."

My heart twists; although I guess I should have known his reasons wouldn't be pretty. But still, he must feel like he owes that family an irreparable debt. "Oh, Haym-"

"Don't pity me. Just… just do it, alright?"

"I was always going to anyway," I assure him, tying my hair back. "I just wanted to know why. You're not such a shitty person as you make out to be, it turns out."

"Thanks," he says drily. "Don't tell them why I'm doing this- the boy gets a free pass, so he doesn't suspect."

"What're their names?" I ask, rolling up my sleeves and silently thanking myself for wearing trousers today. I don't watch the parades or reapings, so this is the first time I have seen them.

"No. You don't get to know that, I don't trust you not to get attached if you do."

"If you insist," I mutter, his words hitting closer to home than he intended. "Do you want them to know weapons, or just hand to hand?"

"If anything, knives. Something she can use to hunt, as well."

"They," I correct him, "not she. Do you actually expect one of them to win?"

"I want her to think she has a chance."

Which means he doesn't, but he'll do it anyway, because he owes the girl's family. "Come on." I walk back out into the main area of the penthouse.

"What're _you _doing here?" asks the boy.

"Him a favour," I reply, jerking my head at Haymitch. "Stand up, the pair of you." They hesitate, and I remember I am a big scary Career victor to them. "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you."

I circle the two of them. The boy's malnourished and doesn't look like he has any muscle at all, but he's lightweight enough to be fast. The girl, however, is well fed, although not to the point of being plump, and she holds herself well.

"Right," I say, stepping back. "Big Two guy comes towards you with a knife, you're unarmed, what do you do?"

"Punch him," the girl says at once.

"No. This normally applies mainly to females because we have narrower bone structures, but looking at you I'm gonna say that both of you should _not _try and punch anybody, because chances are you'll break your hand. Same goes for kicking- plus, you're using a part of your body too far away from your centre of gravity, it'll be easy for them to unbalance you. If you strike, you use knees and elbows. Now try again- tell me what you do."

They both shrug.

"You get his weapon away from him and preferably get a hold of it yourself. He comes- hang on." I run to the kitchen, grab a knife and hand it to the boy. "Try and attack me with that, slowly."

Hesitantly, he moves forward. I sidestep away from him, grab his wrist and push my open palm against his outer elbow.

"If I push any stronger," I say, "your arm breaks and you drop the knife. Never try to defend against a Career, or you'll get stuck in a defensive and eventually one of their hits will get to you. You need to disarm them, get your own attack in fast, take them out and _run_. Go for the kill if you can, so they don't find you later and decide that they want to avenge their broken arm or nose or whatever." I pull the knife from his hand. "Got it?"

They both nod.

"Good. Now when you go in for a hit on someone, you aim for the soft spots and joints- stomach and groin to make them double over, knees to get them down, neck and both hands smack over the ears to stun them. If you're close enough, claw out their eyes, but _only _if they can't get their hands on you. Block with your forearms but like I said before, offence is better than defence. Try to avoid getting hit on the nose, and if you have allies, tell them if you're hurt. This is the Hunger Games, there's no time for nobility." I turn around and see Haymitch giving me an odd, hard look, quite unlike any expression he's had regarding me before. It's so alien I don't even know what it means. "Is that okay?" I ask him. "I don't have time to do this again."

"I guess we'll find out," he shrugs.

"Right," I say, "now try and attack me."

%

Later, I find out their names are Rosalie Donner and Tem Brushwicke. Tem dies on the first day; Rosalie makes it to the final ten. She puts up a good fight against the female tribute from Four, but eventually a trident spears her from behind. A bronze-skinned fourteen year old called Finnick Odair did it, and ends up being crowned victor.

"I'm sorry," I say to Haymitch. We're lying on the floor of the penthouse, and my head is on his chest. "That it didn't work."

"Never expected it to," he replies shortly, "especially not when she was against Odair."

"I can't even hate him for it- he's pretty, and popular. Even I can guess what's going to happen next. He doesn't deserve that."

"Nobody does."

"Please don't make me do this again." I clench my fists. "You were right, I get too attached. When I watched them die, it-" I swallow "-it was like being back in there."

"Don't worry about it." He's on his back, staring upwards at the ceiling, and I know he's distracted. Probably thinking about his own Games, too. "Thanks for humouring me with this."

"I probably owed you a favor anyway."

"Probably," he agrees. "You know, you wouldn't be a half-bad mentor. It's the Career in you. You know the Games inside and out."

The claim is so jarring I sit up, trying to take in what he just said. "But I don't want to," I say, "I can't. You know I can't."

"And that's the kick," Haymitch replies, and reached up to knock his knuckle against my sternum. "At your core, you, Miss Lazuli, are incorruptibly naïve."

He's giving me the same hard look as earlier, and I finally figure out what it is - pride. Haymitch Abernathy is proud of me. Whether it's for my Career knowledge of my, well, me-ness I'm not sure, but that's not the point. I've done him proud.

I turn around and kiss him, hands cradling his face, and when he rises onto his elbows I break off and simply embrace him, pressing my lips into the crook of his neck.

"What's that about?" he asks, hands on my back. The alcohol tremors haven't got him yet tonight, and he is warm and steady. A small, selfish part of me wishes he could be like this all of the time.

"Nothing in particular," I mumble, and he snorts with quiet laughter. "I can leave if you're getting tired of me."

"Don't be ridiculous," he says gruffly. "I paid for the whole night."

"Oh, Haymitch."


	20. Chapter 20

A routine begins to form during the Games, involving me balancing my time between Capitol citizens and other victors, which I become familiar with over the next few years. It also leads to more alliances with the latter- Beetee, a man who won eight years before I did; Gallia, a woman from Six who has been addicted to morphling ever since she became victor; and, perhaps the closest thing I have to a friend in the Capitol, Finnick Odair.

It is Mags who first introduces me to him, on the last leg of his Victory Tour. I was right; the Capitol has fawned over the fourteen-year-old since he was reaped for the sixty-fifth Games, and his former sponsors have been clamouring for him since. Anyway, here he is, six months later, in Snow's mansion, with the Capitol waiting until he is sixteen when they can lay their hands on him, as they did to me. He is charismatic, charming, and it is not long before he is dragged away to talk to somebody else. I think of how he drove that trident through Rosalie's back, and how despite that I still view him as innocent. At least, compared to me he is.

The next time I see him it is two years later, when he turns up at my doorstep the evening the tributes for the sixty-seventh Games arrive, an hour before the ball begins.

"This happened to you too, right?"

I know what he is talking about, and bite my lip. "Come in," I say, "tell me what he said."

It was Finnick's family that Snow threatened, it turns out. And Mags. So tonight, he will be going to the house of one of the Gamemakers, to bed his wife while he is at the party. His hands are shaking too much to hold the mug of coffee I offer him. This is nothing like the suave victor I had met- he is just a child, and he is terrified.

"He said- he said since I volunteered so young, I gave up my innocence then, and I shouldn't mind. But I can't," he mutters, mostly to himself, "I can't do this."

I have learnt from Mags that sex is considered a much more sacred thing in District Four than it is in One, let alone the Capitol. Whatever horror I felt when I was in his position is amplified, for him. He looks sick.

"You have to, kid," I tell him. "Or somebody dies."

He shakes his head. "He wouldn't dare-" he begins, but I interrupt.

"Oh, yes he would," I say flatly. "And I know how scared you are, but I promise you, it gets easier. Besides, you can still spend most of your time in Four," I add, somewhat bitterly. For me, there is no escape. "And the payment helps."

"I don't _want _their money!" he cries out. "I have more than enough of it already!"

"Did I say money?" I ask him. He stares at me with bloodshot eyes. "If the Capitol blackmails you, you play them at their own game- pillow talk is more valuable than anything to you now. Listen to rumours, find out people's dirty little secrets, you'll end up with half the city under your thumb. Everyone here has something to hide, Finnick. Even Snow."

He stares down into the mug, and swallows. "Fine," he mutters. I clap him on the back.

"Good. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a party to go to."

I herd him back into his own transport and make my way to the ball, where I spend a couple of hours alternately dancing with the Capitol's finest, and leaning against a pillar with Beetee, listening to him explain something technical. I have to admit, most of it goes over my head… pretty much all of it, actually.

"Where's Mags?" he asks at one point, bespectacled eyes scanning the room.

In my high heeled shoes, I am taller than him and can see over people's heads, but I fail to spot her. "She's normally here…" I murmur.

"She's _always _here," Beetee corrected me. "This is strange."

I shrug a shoulder. "She is getting pretty old. Maybe she wasn't feeling up to it tonight."

He shakes his head. "That doesn't sound like Mags."

"I guess you're right," I sigh, looking round again. "I'll send someone round to- oh, no."

"What? What is it?" Beetee asks urgently, but I have slipped away from him to the golden-haired boy at one of the tables.

"Finnick!" I hiss. "What are you doing here?!"

He shrugs. "I couldn't do it."

I stare at him, horrified. His family is in danger… and then I realize something I should have done the moment I noticed something was wrong.

"Mags!" I turn to an Avox stood by the table. "Have you seen her? Old woman, green eyes, well dressed, was victor ages ago. She's in trouble, she should be round here somewhere. Quickly!"

The Avox runs to another and signs the message, her hands flying. I barrel through a door into a richly carpeted corridor, Finnick on my heels. It's much quieter in here, save for the muffled music- and the rapid, irregular thumping coming from round the corner.

"Mags!" I yell again, tearing down the hallway. She's on the floor, foaming at the mouth with her limbs twitching. "Help!" I scream down the corridor. "We need help! She's been pois- she's having a reaction to something!"

A few victors are the first ones to emerge, running forward to help, followed by other, curious guests. Chaff reaches me first.

"Somebody get a Makeroom!" he yells back at them. Seeder disappears back into the ballroom to fetch it- the Capitol drink that makes you throw up, so you can continue to eat.

"It must have been the wine," Chaff mutters to me, nodding to the glass next to her outstretched hand. "I saw someone offer it to her- one of Snow's men."

"Quiet!" says Seeder, returning with the clear liquid. Chaff cradles Mags' head as it is poured down her throat then holds her jaw shut. There's a moment of silence, then Mags rolls over and vomits all over the carpet, before slumping onto the floor.

"She needs to go to the hospital," Seeder turns to the crowd. "Beetee, call a doctor!"

I glance at Finnick, who is staring at Mags with his face frozen, too scared to touch her.

"You see what you've done?" I ask him.

%

I'm sat at Mags' bedside, trying not to fall asleep, when I feel a hand rest on my shoulder.

"How is she?" asks Haymitch, staring at the tubes running in and out of her body.

"The doctors say the effects will be similar to a stroke," I reply dully. "It destroyed some of the nerves going into her brain, or something like that. She won't be able to coordinate her movements well, or speak properly."

His hand moves from my shoulder to brush against my cheekbone. "You blaming yourself?"

"A little bit." I rub my eyes. "I should have made sure Finnick got to that house."

"The boy will've learnt his lesson now, at any rate." But he doesn't disagree with me. "Have you seen him?"

"He left about half an hour ago, for the woman's house he was meant to be at in the first place. Poor kid."

"Poor _Mags_. It's lucky you found her, or she'd be dead now."

"Don't," I mutter, voice shaking, "just don't. This is sick, all of it, it's disgusting."

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Miss Lazuli, Mr Abernathy," an oily voice said behind us. "I just came to wish Margaret well."

I stand and turn, to see a man in Gamemaker's robes smiling a little oddly at us. "Plutarch Heavensbee," he introduces himself as, extending a hand.

Haymitch eyes him warily. "Shouldn't you be working?"

"I took an evening off." His hand is still outstretched. Slowly, I reach out with my own left hand and shake it.

"Mags was talking to a Gamemaker just before this happened," I say without prelude. "He offered her a drink."

Does he realise what I am insinuating? Yes, I think he does- that look is a little too knowing for my liking. "I was not aware. I myself was still at work, you understand, and knew nothing about Margaret's fate until the next day."

I glance at Haymitch, who looks back at me and inclines his head a fraction. If he thinks Heavensbee is telling the truth, then I will too.

Plutarch walks past us and plants his ample behind on the edge of the bed, taking Mags' wrinkled hand in his own plump one. "I empathise with your outrage that such a fate could befall a woman like Margaret, Miss Lazuli, I really do," he says, looking at Mags, no longer smiling. "But as of yet, there is nothing we can do about it."

_As of yet? _I repeat to myself, as Heavensbee rises, inclines his head to us and leaves the hospital room.

"What was all that about?" Haymitch asks, for once as confused as I am.

**A/N I've been so busy recently so my A/Ns have been pretty much non-existent, but thank y'all SO GODDAMN MUCH for your reviews, follows, favourites, even though I've kinda lost track. I'm so weirdly proud of this fic, idk. Also, FINNICK. Also, MOCKINGJAY PART 2 TRAILER AHH**


	21. Chapter 21

**PSA: It's kind of smut near the end. Nothing explicitly stated, nothing actually****_ happens_**** happens like the last time, but enough to merit a warning. **

It only takes us a month to find out, after the Games have finished and the fuss has died down without starting up again for the Victory Tour. The mentors, as they usually do, are staying in the Capitol until the end of the month, which means, somewhat unusually, I am spending most of my free nights in company. Finnick's presence in the Capitol, however, has made me no less popular, meaning these evenings are rare.

It is one of these evenings, when I have Haymitch, the Eleven mentors, Finnick, Beetee and a few other victors scattered around my lounge that I receive a message inviting Haymitch and myself to a meeting at Plutarch Heavensbee's house at midnight. It isn't midnight for a couple of hours yet though, so I continue with what I am doing.

Chaff pours a generous amount of the clear liquor into tiny glasses I had not previously known the use for, and adds a splash of white vinegar to each of them. I eye the arrangement suspiciously.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I ask.

"I _know_ it's not a good idea," Haymitch mutters, leaning against the wall behind me, "because it's my liquor you're using."

"You're free to join in anytime you want, Abernathy," Chaff grins.

"Fine," he retorts, walking forwards to stand next to me. "What about you, Seeder? Pretty boy?"

Seeder, being the only sensible one among us, shakes her head, but Finnick steps forward- too cocky to back down from a dare.

"Down the shot," Chaff explains, "simple enough."

"No!" says Finnick. "Not when there's vinegar in it!"

"I guess you're right," Chaff nods, "too easy. Denna, you got a knife?" he asks, nodding to the fruit bowl. Haymitch pulls a tarnished flipknife out of his pocket and hands it to him, and Chaff slices a lemon in half, squeezing its juice into the glasses. "Right. That's better."

"I'm going to die," I mumble, and Haymitch snorts with laughter. I take the glass warily, trying not to gag at the fumes rising from it.

"Race you," grins Finnick, and I pull a face at him.

"One, two, three… down!"

Suffice to say I've had a number of things in my mouth I didn't want to be there over the years, but this is by far the worst. I think it might have actually set my throat on fire, and my entire body is telling me not to swallow, but I'm _not_ backing down now- I choke the stuff down and double over, gagging and eyes streaming.

Haymitch and Chaff both seem unaffected, save for the latter grimacing somewhat; but they are both laughing hysterically. Finnick spat his out immediately and now has his head stuck in my kitchen sink, and Seeder is rolling her eyes at the two men.

"You're both despicable," she tells them, fighting to keep a straight face.

"I hate you Abernathy," I manage to choke out, and he rubs me on the back sympathetically. "Why did I do this?"

"Because you're an idiot," he smirks. With the shot still burning like hell, he's got a point. But he's holding out a glass of water, too, which is possibly the nicest thing he's ever done for me.

"That's more liquor, isn't it?" I ask him.

"Yeah," he admits. "I wanted to see your reaction."

"I hate you."

"You already said that."

I kiss him, because I have no comeback for that. Chaff wolf whistles as I break off.

Haymith glowers at him, and to my delight I see he is blushing slightly. He looks back at me. "I need to talk to you," he says quietly, and I raise an eyebrow at him. "Come on."

He takes my hand and leads me into my study, which is lit only by the glow of streetlamps and the windows of other houses. I wrap my arms round him and kiss him again- but he pushes me off.

"What are you doing?" he snaps.

I throw my hands in the air. "You said you wanted to talk to me, and now we're alone! What else am I going to do?"

"I actually wanted to talk to you, idiot." His expression softens. "You've been in the Capitol too long."

"No, I haven't!" I reply defensively. _But what if he's right_, a nagging voice in the back of my head points out. _What if I've changed? _I push the thought away. "What is it?"

He leans against my piano, away from me, arms folded. "We shouldn't go to that meeting tonight. It doesn't sound safe."

"Of course we're going!" I say, a little jumpy. "We've had an invite! You can't refuse an invite!"

"Of course you can," he points out, then adds, "What sort of invites have you been getting?"

"What do you think?" I ask him, avoiding meeting his gaze. There's an awkward silence, which I guess is the closest I'm going to get to him apologising. "I want to go, Twelve. If it looks like anything is off about it… well, after all we've been through already, what's the worst that can happen?"

"Death."

"They can't kill us- they couldn't even kill Mags. That's one benefit of being a victor, at least." That's not exactly true- I'm on my last chance with Snow, and if he finds out I'm doing anything even remotely suspicious, I'm dead. But Haymitch doesn't need to know that.

"Fine," he says. "But nobody can know we're going, okay?"

"Please," I say wryly, "I spend my entire life sneaking in and out of people's houses. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go and drink about four gallons of milk to stop my throat dissolving."

%

Fortunately, the jacket Haymitch is wearing this evening is hooded, and still reasonably in fashion, so it is unlikely he will be noticed. I pull my own hood up and take his hand as we leave via the fire escape of my apartment, and begin to weave through the shadowy back alleys of the Capitol. He's drunk, naturally, and he stumbles quite a lot, making me jump every time he does so. It's not until I hear footsteps that the fear really begins to boil, though.

We are at the end of a wide side street, with no bins or anything for cover. I recognise the regular, heavy footfall of Peacekeepers on patrol and try not to panic, casting around for an idea. Without anything better to do, I fall back against the wall and pull Haymitch against me.

"Put your hand up my skirt," I hiss, as the Peacekeepers come closer.

"What?"

"Now!"

The white uniformed officers round the corner and I watch them out of the corner of my eye. One of them pauses, begins to come closer to ask what we are doing down a back alley at this time of night, but when he sees the… "situation" we are apparently in he backs away awkwardly, nods to the other one with flushed cheeks I can see even in this darkness, and they continue on their way. I wait for the noise of footfall to fade, then shove Haymitch's hand off my thigh.

"We can't let them get close enough to see our faces," I tell him as we walk on. "Victors moving around on foot rather than being driven is too unusual to let go."

"Are we likely to get into a position like that again?" he asks.

"Oh, shut up."

The rest of the journey, thankfully, is without interruption. Heavensbee's home is a large manor on the outskirts of the city, too large for a Gamemaker of no significant rank- he must have inherited it. We follow the high walls encircling it until I find a back gate, most likely used for deliveries, that has been left ajar.

"You sure you want to do this?" Haymitch mutters behind me.

"Yeah." The gate swings open silently at my touch, and we are met by an Avox, his head bowed. He leads us through a heavily-scented rose garden to the side door of the manor, along thickly-carpeted corridors and into a candle-lit dining room.

About two dozen people are sitting round an overlong table, which has had extra mismatched chairs pulled up to it for the occasion. I know most of them- some only by sight, some I have been introduced to, and a couple have paid for my company. Heavensbee is sitting at the head of the table, but he stands up and shakes us both by the hand, wearing that funny smile again.

"So glad you could come," he greets us, waving towards two spare chairs, "please, make yourself comfortable."

I glance at Haymitch, who lifts a shoulder and sits down. I perch uneasily in the seat next to him.

"Now that we're all here," Heavensbee begins, settling himself back down and clasping his hands in front of him, "I should explain to our guests _why _we are here.

"Nearly seventy years ago, during the Dark Days, District Thirteen was one of the Capitol's greatest weapons. While the rest of Panem thought they were really a mining district, they were in reality producing nuclear weapons for the fight against the rebellion."

Haymitch raises an eyebrow at me; he must be as surprised as I am, although he is much better at hiding it.

"But when District Thirteen threatened to join the uprising," Plutarch continues, "the Capitol turned against it- they dropped what was apparently a nuclear bomb on the area, wiping out all life forms.

"But the bomb wasn't nuclear; District Thirteen had withdrawn all that they had supplied to the Capitol. The blast was devastating, but out of all of them, Thirteen was the district most prepared for a situation like this. They retreated to an underground complex, big enough to hold their depleted population (not all of them had survived the blast, of course) and began the wait for revenge.

"The Capitol knew, of course- but since Thirteen had as many nuclear arms as they did, a deal was created- Thirteen would go silent, apparently dead to the eyes of the districts, in return for being left alone. But of course, they had not given in with their fight against the corruption in the heart of Panem- even now, they are plotting against the Capitol, waiting for a spark to start a revolution.

"We know this," Plutarch finishes, staring directly at us, "because we are in contact with them. You're looking at the rebels of the Capitol."

A shiver runs down my spine, and I am flooded with an emotion I haven't felt for years, perhaps ever… Hope. These people- District Thirteen- can do what I only hoped to achieve- unhinge the Capitol, save the outlying districts. And they can save me, too, from the painted life I lead. I can be free.

Haymitch, naturally, is much more cynical about this revelation than I am.

"How do we know you're telling the truth?" he asks sharply.

"You don't," Plutarch replies smoothly, "neither can we prove it to you. Proof is evidence of our conspiring against the President, to have proof is to have a death sentence. But why would we lie to you, Mr Abernathy? Look around at us. What would a group of people like this have to gain from receiving your trust?"

He's right; there's no explanation that would account for this being a scam.

Heavensbee takes our silence as our agreement. "We have been wanting to contact you both for a while, as a matter of fact. Neither of you played the Games the way the Capitol wanted- in fact, Miss Lazuli, if you had succeeded in your original plan, we may have taken that moment of usurping their Games and overthrown them."

"Well, I'm sorry I didn't die," I snap back, emotions still high. Haymitch hides a grin behind his hand.

Heavensbee looks quite taken aback at this outburst, but to his credit he recovers quickly. "Denna, your participation in particular could be invaluable to us. We already know how you prefer your… clients to pay you-" the few people in the room who have rented my company shift uncomfortably in their seats "- and the information you have, and no doubt will continue to obtain might well be instrumental to our plans."

My part in this is becoming clear. Far from wanting to rescue me, they want to use me, my body, just in the way the Capitol has, except this would be against Snow and his city. Same means, different ends. But if it results in the freedom of the districts, no matter how long it takes, is it worth it? To die my own self, not a plaything of the elite, with those I have always wanted to protect finally safe?

I look to Haymitch, his gray eyes stormy. What do they want with a depressed drunkard, I wonder? He's clever, I suppose. Good at plans, from what I know of him, and what I remember of his Games. But surely they have other minds- clearer ones, less lost and addicted. But then I realise, they must have known I wouldn't do this alone.

I lean over and whisper in his ear. "What do you think?"

"Seems too good to be true," he murmurs in reply.

"Does it?" I ask him. "We're most likely going to stay how we are now for years, until they find that spark they mentioned. It makes sense, everything they said. We'd be stupid to turn them down."

He purses his lips. "Fine," he mutters, "if it ends up in you- us- getting away from the Capitol for good."

"Thank you." I kiss his cheek, then turn back to face Heavensbee. "We're in," I tell him, my voice strong. "What do you want us to do?"

"I'll talk to you both in private when the meeting is over," Plutarch assures us, then turns to the group in general. "Now, intelligence reports have reached us from District Eight, but they've been corrupted…"

No, I don't listen for the rest of the meeting. I _try_, for a few minutes at least, but I've never been much of a planner- my technique is just… throwing myself at things, often literally. But I can tell Haymitch is listening (although he's making an effort not to look impressed, slouching in his chair); his eyes are following the discussion. I stifle a yawn- he doesn't notice and I yawn again, slightly louder. Still nothing.

I rest my right hand on his left knee, watching him out of the corner of my eye. Heavensbee is engaged in a very important sounding argument with someone across the table, and appears to have completely forgotten us. I slide my hand up his thigh, slowly enough for nobody to notice the movement.

He affords me a glance, and almost imperceptibly shakes his head, just a fraction of an inch. I smile back at him, and he looks away.

I move my hand further up his leg, curling my fingers round the inside seam.

"Stop it," he whispers.

"Fine," I murmur. And I do stop moving it- I leave it resting at the top of his inner thigh. Haymitch purses his lips, grabs my hand and pulls it off his leg, dropping it back in my own lap.

I scowl, and go back to being bored. _The rebellion can't come soon enough_, I think.

%

I wake up before him the next morning, and start making breakfast for two. It's a meal I very rarely have, and when I do it's normally just a hastily downed cup of black coffee, so I'm making the most of this opportunity- according to official records, I am still at Heavensbee's manor in the form of his "lover", which means I effectively have the day off.

Dawn was a couple of hours ago, and now the sun has fully risen over the slumbering city. Victors and districts welcome the lull in activity after the Games, when the Capitol lose interest in them again. Victors and mentors leave late this afternoon, and I mull over what- or rather, who- Heavensbee wants me to do afterwards as I clatter round my kitchen, searching for food that hasn't gone off. People I know, people who pay me in secrets already; nothing I cannot handle, for now.

I'm in such an uncharacteristically good mood that I start singing. It's a song from the far west of District One, where a tiny part of the border meets the coast, but it's so old I think it goes even beyond inherited memory. It was the only song my mother knew and thus it was my lullaby, so it's ingrained into my brain.

My singing voice falls flat and I can never reach the high notes, but I don't let that stop me-

_"Out of my window, looking at the night_

_I can see the barges' flickering light._

_Silently flows the river to the sea,_

_As the barges go by silently."_

I drop bacon into the frying pan next to the eggs, and slam a drawer closed with my hip.

_"Barges, I would like to sail with you,_

_I would like to sail the ocean blue._

_Barges, have you treasure in your hold?_

_Do you fight with pirates brave and bold?"_

From my bedroom, I hear the sort of thud associated with a very hungover man falling out of bed, called by the smell of cooked breakfast.

_"How my heart wants to sail away with you,_

_As you sail across the ocean blue._

_But I must stay beside my window clear,_

_As the barges sail away from here."_

I hum the chorus again, turn and grin at Haymitch, who is hanging off the doorframe. "You haven't thrown up everywhere, have you?"

He shakes his head. His overgrown hair's a mess, he needs a shave and he slept in his clothes, so they look about as bad as he does.

"You look wonderful."

He ignores me, and looks longingly at the frying pan behind me. "Please don't burn that. _Please_."

"Are you begging, Haymitch Abernathy?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. When he doesn't reply, I turn around and pull a slice of bread out of the bowl of whisked eggs with some tongs, and drop it into the oiled pan. I hear a small moan behind me. "How were the nightmares?" I ask him, pushing my hair back from my face.

"Manageable," he replies, voice coarse. "Thanks for leaving me the knife."

"Figured you might panic otherwise," I say. "Thought I'd clear out of the way before you woke up, though."

"Wise choice." He walks forward, and two heavy arms wrap around me. "What was the terrible singing about?"

"Charming," I mutter, pushing his arms off so I can move freely. "And it was about running away to sea." I flip the bread. "Well, wanting to." I lift my eyes to the window, and the view of the Capitol and the mountains beyond it. I've seen the sea twice; once when training to be a Career, and they taught us to swim in choppy waters, and once on my Victory Tour. Its emptiness was both terrifying and oddly enticing; I associate it with a freedom I've never known.

_But I must stay beside my window clear,_

_As the barges sail away from here._

"It's just a song," I assure us both.

"Right." He pushes himself up to sit on the kitchen side, and watches me cook while chewing his lip impatiently. He catches a strand of my overlong hair and braids it as he waits, wrapping the uneven strands around each other the same way I remember Cossie doing, years ago.

I swallow, and pull my hair out of his grasp.

"Is it ready yet?"

"Nearly." I drop the food onto two plates. "Now eat your heart-stopppingly greasy breakfast."

"Gladly." He takes the plate, and wanders off.

"Don't eat in my bed!" I yell after him, and he veers off obediently to the lounge. I load my own plate and follow him, wondering if this is how normal relationships work.

Once we've both eaten and showered, we both silently agree that he's staying here for as long as possible. We've got a bottle of liquor each, and conversation grows louder and more surreal.

"How do you do it?" he asks me. I'm sat upside down on my couch; lying down, legs hooked over the top and head dangling off the side. It's making drinking somewhat difficult.

"Do what?" I squint at him; he's slouched on my barely used desk chair across the room.

"The-" he waves his arms in the air "-oh, Mr So-so, tell me all your secrets now you've bent me over a table," he says in a falsetto voice. I fall sideways on the couch, giggling.

"Not like that," I tell him. "You'd make a terrible whore."

"Well, I'm a very good alcoholic," he points out, and I laugh again. "You haven't answered me, y'know."

I swing my legs round and stand up, place the bottle on a side table. "Want me to show you?" I say.

His lip curls. "Go on, then." He pushes himself up, but I shake my head. After last night, I know how to play him.

"Stay sitting." I speak with a now-familiar confidence, and unbutton the shirt I am wearing over my underclothes. I run my tongue over my lips and tease my fingers through my hair as I walk towards him, slowly, on tiptoes, hips swaying. He swallows, and his fingers curl around the narrow arms of the chair.

I stop when I'm standing with my legs either side of his, put a finger under his chin and tilt his head upwards so he's looking me in the eye. I try not to feel like he's pinning me down with his familiar gaze, and remind myself that I am in control. "So it starts off like this," I tell him. "And now you do what I say."

"Sure," he says with his usual sarcasm, but just slightly too quickly.

"Keep your hands still," I order him, "and off of me. And don't make a noise." It's all about the tease, but if he starts touching me I'll get distracted.

I lean forward a little, kneel on the wide base of the chair so I'm straddling him. Still oh so slowly, I start to unbutton his shirt, run my fingers along his collarbones, then pin him to the back of my chair, palms against his shoulders. I press my body against him and he purses his lips, looks away from me- of course, he'd view this as a challenge. His heart is hammering as fast as my own, beating tattoos against our ribcages, and I lower myself onto his lap. I know every one of his muscles is tense, every nerve is on fire. And it's taking him every ounce of self-control not to grab me. My thighs are pressed against his hips, my skin flushed where it has rubbed against the coarse fabric of his trousers.

"Look at me," I say, and his eyes snap back to mine. I let my own flick downward for a moment, leaning back, and as I look back up I run a hand down his chest. His breathing is fast, impatient, and I slip my other hand round his neck and pull him up so my lips are millimetres from his. Then, still without kissing him, I take his jaw in my hands and tilt his head sharply to one side, fingernails digging into his skin.

"This is the part," I whisper, hoping he can hear the smug little smile in my voice, "where you tell me your secrets."

I let go and he tilts his head back and moans, almost too quietly for me to hear.

I clap my hands together and jump off of him, grinning. His knuckles are white as he grips on the chair, still looking upwards with his chest heaving. "You lose," I declare, "you made a noise."

"That was…" he drops his head and clicks his jaw. "_Fuck_."

"Didn't even get that far," I say. "Didn't even kiss you."

"You didn't have to stop."

"Why?" I glance at the clock. "We've still got a couple of hours, if you want to try again."

He quirks an eyebrow. "I think you already know the answer to that."

**A/N Huge thanks to everyone for reviewing since I last acknowledged you all: melliemoo, Guest(s?) and BrySt1, who left one of my favourite reviews I've ever received; "it's amazing in like every way but it's also kind of depressing". That is EXACTLY what I was aiming for, although hopefully this one was a bit of light relief.**

**DISCLAIMER: A bit of information about the song - it's not mine, but a campfire song that I think's been around since forever. I've been told it's the story about a girl on her deathbed, it's all from her point of view- you hum the last verse and chorus because she dies before she manages to finish the song. I always thought it was very pretty and very sad and suited Denna perfectly.**


	22. Chapter 22

**TRIGGER WARNING: rape, really quite perverted fetishes**

One of Snow's inner circle has information Heavensbee needs- his computer password. And they want me to get it for him, which I would not have more of a problem with than usual, except the man in question is one of the most sick, perverted bastards in the Capitol.

A retired Head Gamemaker, Gallus Haim has an unhealthy obsession with the Games and tributes in any form. It's a miracle I have not been called to his company already, but apparently he is too proud to ask- I contact him, in a carefully worded letter telling him I admire his work (including his last Games as Head, the second Quarter Quell) and would be delighted to receive his company. I end up having to type it, because my hand is shaking too badly to write- that, and half of it is misspelt anyway. It's at times like this I wish I was clever enough to string a sentence together.

Do I tell Haymitch about this, about my contact with the man who caused him so much suffering? Of course I don't, and I beg the rest of the rebels not to either. He returns to District Twelve oblivious, and I am grateful for it. This is something I will have to do alone.

Haim arranges to meet me at a hovercraft port, kissing my bionic fingers when I find him standing by the entrance to one of the ships. I bite my tongue as I let him blindfold me, and he leads me up the ramp with his hands around my waist.

He strips me of my clothes, but I don't expect what comes next- rougher, lightweight material slipping back over my skin. He pushes me into a chair and the hovercraft takes off with us both sat in silence- apparently he plans on keeping it a surprise, and I certainly don't intend on starting a conversation. The man is infamous, among other things, for his quick temper.

With no stars to judge by under this blindfold, I have no idea of the time it takes for us to reach our destination. But the cool air that brushes against my skin when the doors open indicates the night has come, and very little light pierces the fabric over my eyes.

My bare feet go from feeling metal to short, damp grass, and I curl my toes up in it. Then he removes my blindfold, and it takes all my strength not to fall to the floor.

We are back in the Arena. _My _Arena.

Of course, I knew it must have been opened as a tourist attraction after my Games finished. But I certainly never expected to end up here again, this beautiful, hellish place. There was so much death here, so much of it at my hands, but the bloodstains and bodies are gone. Apart from that, Eden remains almost identical, although stripped of supplies- the Cornucopia gleams in the last rays of sunlight, and some rotten cloth dangles in its entrance. Cloth that was used to hold up Cossie and me, before we were killed and tortured. The wizened old tree, pruned to stay the same size, is scarred where blades have bitten into it, from that forsaken night when I was crowned Panem's sixtieth Victor. It's empty, except for us- emptier than I have ever seen it.

Haim is watching my chest rise and fall under clothes of the same design I wore in the Games, smiling.

"Did you miss it?" he asks, voice low and soft.

He sees me as the bloodthirsty girl who tore apart the Careers, nearly ten years ago. He assumes I enjoyed it, just as he must have done watching it. And I have to earn his trust.

"I…" I swallow, and force myself to smile. Fortunately I have become an expert in concealing my emotions. "Yes. I didn't realise how much until now."

"Good." He hands me a dagger, which feels all too familiar in my hand. "Stand against the tree."

I do as he says, remembering this as the position in which I killed Gleam and earned my crown. He prowls towards me and suddenly his hand snakes out and pins my wrist against the trunk. "Drop it." The weapon falls to the ground with a dull thunk, and he presses his body against mine. "I win," he murmurs in my ear.

"Congratulations," I whisper back, staring straight ahead and trying not to think. It's easier when I don't think.

"Do as I tell you, child." He steps back, looks me up and down like a butcher sizing up a pig. "Take off your clothes."

%

It appears that wired into a male brain is a process that causes them to fall into a deep sleep ten minutes after climaxing. No matter who it is, this almost invariably happens, and Haim, having taken me back to his mansion after what happened at Eden, is no exception.

In the fairytales of the civilisation that preceded Panem, the first two humans were thrown out of paradise for sinning, and cast out into the wilds to fight for themselves. The paradise was called Eden, what I named that small area of the Arena after. I understand how they must have felt- violated by some evil being, now shivering in the cold, on their own, feeling punished for something that was not their fault. And yet they blamed themselves, just as I am now. I feel as much a disgrace to humanity- a dirty, ruined thing- as they were supposed to be.

I sit naked on his bed, shaking, waiting until his breathing settles into regularity. Then I creep into his bathroom and throw up, over and over again, until there's nothing left to come up and the bile stings my throat. I allow myself five minutes to sit there and do nothing, then stand up and tiptoe into his study.

I would have asked him- I have got more important secrets out of people before than their passcode. But he scares me, almost as much as the Games did themselves, so I am hoping he has done what most people over the age of fifty do- left it scribbled on a piece of scrap paper, and "hidden" it beneath a pen pot. Unfortunately, after minutes of digging through his desk as quietly as I can, this does not appear to be the case.

I sigh in frustration and turn on the computer- maybe I can figure it out. The cursor blinks invitingly at me, and every time anyone has ever called me stupid comes flooding back to me.

Fortunately, there does not appear to be a limit on the amount of times I can attempt it, and I know from the make of that computer that it must have at least six characters.

PASSWORD is my first attempt, and a small red cross flashes up on the screen.

123456

1234567

12345678

ASDFGHJKL

PRESIDENTSNOW

THISISHARD

WHERESBEETEEWHENYOUNEEDHIM

HUNGERGAMES

QUARTERQUELL

VICTOR

HUNG3RG4M35

QU4RT3RQU3LL

I pause, fingers hovering above the keys. These are passwords I would expect of a normal Gamemaker, not someone as twisted as him.

AB3RNATHY

I hiss in satisfaction as a tick replaces the cross, and the screen fades to black before flashing up his homescreen, the background of which is the seal of Panem. Not wanting to risk anything, I log back out and retreat from the room, checking to make sure everything is as I found it. It's then that I notice the photographs hanging in frames on the wall, difficult to spot at first in the dim light.

There's half a dozen or so, and I recognize the later ones. It's his Games- the ones he presided over. Each one is an image of that year's victor, frozen in triumph over their opponents, the moment they won. To the far right is a good-looking boy with dark hair, kneeling over the floor with a hand over his stomach, the only thing keeping his insides inside. At his feet is a girl with her eye bored out and an axe buried in her head, but he's not looking at her- his eyes are shut tight, his face screwed up in what would be, to most, unimaginable agony.

_Haymitch_. He looks so young, though less than a year younger than me when I won my own Games. I only vaguely remember watching his when they were happening, and they have never been shown since. I think of his ugly scar, that the Capitol would not polish away because he was not important enough, a constant reminder- like my hand- of what he went through. Tears sting at my eyes and I blink them back, despite nobody being here to see them.

I want more than anything to get out of this house right now, to be anywhere but the domain of the man that keeps pictures of children tearing each other apart framed in his study, but I have not yet been given permission to leave. Instead, skin cold and clammy, I slip back under the covers of the bed.

%

I don't see anyone in the week; I can't bring myself to do it. Luckily, requests for my company are from people I know well enough to turn down, feigning a not-too-serious illness. When the week is up though, I go to Plutarch's myself, so the message can't be intercepted. When he asks me if I want to know the reason he needs the password, I shake my head. I don't want to hear or remember anything more to do with this.

When I return home, I find Finnick waiting for me in my lounge.

"Shouldn't you be in District Four?" I ask. He just mentored another tribute- Annie Cresta- to victory, and I recall her being too unstable to be interviewed by Caesar.

"Mags is looking after Annie while I'm here," he explains, "and not many other people know. I traded in some favours, basically sneaked in."

I nod, curiosity satisfied.

"I heard you slept with Gallus Haim," he states.

I nod and, unable to hold it back anymore, burst into tears.

He runs across the room and wraps his arms around me. He smells of seasalt and light perfume, unlike what I am used to with Haymitch and the Capitol citizens.

"You're safe now," he consoles me, arms tight and strong, "he's never going to go near you again. I promise you."

I feel idiotic- Finnick is years younger than me, I should be looking after him and not the other way round. But right now, I don't give a damn.

I end up curled up next to him on the sofa, a mug of some hot drink clutched in my hands. I stare into it, not wanting to meet his gaze.

"Does Haymitch know?"

I shake my head. "This is the man that designed his Games, remember? I don't want to see his reaction when he finds out… anyway, I can deal with this without him."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Thankfully, he doesn't take the matter further. I wasn't lying, either- I will recover from what happened the other night. I will not let it break me. "How is Annie?"

"She's… better. When I'm around anyway. Mags reckons she associates me with safety, which is something at least."

"Good. She seemed nice."

"She is nice," Finnick mumbles, and out of the corner of my eye I see him blush slightly.

"You like her?" I ask him, intrigued.

"Of course I like her," he replies quickly, "she's a friend."

"Not like that, you idiot."

His blush deepens beneath his bronzy skin, and I smile for the first time in a week.

"You can't help who you fall in love with, Odair," I say wisely. "Look at me."

That makes him laugh. "How did that even happen, anyway? You and Haymitch?"

I tilt my head to one side. "A series of near death situations. It's a good thing the Capitol hasn't found out yet, or I'd fall out of favour pretty quickly."

"They think he's paying for you like the rest of them," he informs me.

"Understandable. I'm way out of his league."

Finnick grins and stands up. "I had better get back to Four, it's getting late and I promised Annie I would be back by the end of the day."

I walk him to the door and hug him goodbye. "Are you sure you'll be alright on your own?" he checks anxiously.

I wave his concerns away with a gesture of my hand. "Don't worry about me, pretty boy. Now get home before midnight, or Mags might impose a curfew."

I watch him leave, feeling a little bit more alive again.


	23. Chapter 23

In the two years that follow, I begin to lose contact with Haymitch. The picture in Haim's office has done something to me- I can't bear to look at what he has become, compared to what he was before the Games. Instead, I find a recording of his Quell and find myself watching it over and over again, laughing at the sixteen-year-old's sarcastic remarks, clenching my fists during the fights in his idyllic Arena, the relief at his winning- followed by dread, because I know what will happen to him. At this point I loop back to the beginning again, when he still has hope. This behaviour is unhealthy, I know it, but I can't bring myself to stop.

In real life I shrink away from him, sending my money for sponsoring his tributes indirectly and making up excuses should we both be attending the same event. I think the other victors notice- how couldn't they? - But nobody mentions anything.

_Besides_, I think, _why would he want to come near me? I screwed Haim. I'm filthy._

Haymitch begins to resent me; I start to feel his glares burning into the back of my neck whenever I move away from him at the few events we are both obliged to attend. His drinking gets worse, and when he leaves these things, it is often propped up between two Avoxes. I hear that he loses interest in his duties as mentor almost completely, and what little hope District Twelve had for their tributes evaporates. He no longer attends the midnight meetings at Plutarch Heavensbee's manor, and the latter informs me that, when he tries to contact him, the number appears to be dead. He must have torn his telephone from the wall.

It is during the seventy-second Hunger Games that my successful streak of avoiding him comes to an abrupt halt. I am in the lobby of the Training Centre, on my way to talk to Chaff and Seeder about sponsoring the Eleven tributes and having just finished a second glass of wine offered to me while I waited for them, when I collide with him in the corridor that leads to the lobby.

He drops the bottle of liquor he was carrying and it smashes at our feet. I only know this because of the noise, since my eyes are fixed on his.

"Where the _fuck _have you been?" he snarls. Normally Haymitch is close to inscrutable, but it appears that something has finally snapped.

The picture in Haim's office flashes back to me. I have no idea for an excuse, so simply tell the truth. "Avoiding you," I reply coolly.

That surprises him, to the point he is lost for words- but perhaps he is too drunk to articulate them. I realize I have lost all patience for him.

"I can't stand to look at you anymore," I explain. "You disgust me. You drink and yell and swear and you don't raise a damn finger to help those kids, because you're too busy feeling sorry for yourself."

"I'm like this because you left!" he slurs, and I laugh and shake my head.

"You were getting there anyway. I just figured out what a train wreck you were, and left before I could get caught up in it." I hear myself saying this like I am disconnected- where is this coming from, why is it so sudden? Then it dawns on me- I've always known this. But instead of admitting it to myself I refused to take it seriously, instead laughing at his drunkenness and brushing off the harsh comments. It was only that picture that made me appreciate how much he has changed- not only since his Games, but since mine too. I never stopped his drinking- never even managed to slow it down.

"You hypocritical bitch. You think _I'm _a mess? Look at you! Just another one of Snow's whores, you don't even care anymore. You're even doing it for Heavensbee and his cronies, you filthy slut- you know what? You're not the girl who tried to die in the Arena, she never made it out of there. I should have let you stick that bottle in your neck, stopped you from becoming what you are now," he sneers.

Any respect I had left for him, for the man that stopped me killing myself on the rooftop twelve years ago, any damn _sliver_ of affection, vanishes as he says that. A small part of my mind feebly tries to point out that it's the liquor talking, that he'd never say that while sober- but that's the point. He's never sober.

_Neither are you, right now_, the voice argues. _And you're the one who started this._

_I just told him the truth_, I think.

_But so did he. Do you really think that you're the same person who was naïve enough to believe she could beat the Games? After all you've been through since?_

"Go fuck yourself," I spit at him, and for a moment it looks like he is about to hit me.

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the wine-tinted fog in it, and storm away to the elevator, punching no particular button. I don't see him as the door slides shut behind me, but once it is closed, I scream in anger and frustration at him, myself, and punch the glass wall with my metal hand. A thousand tiny fractures spread across it.

The doors slide open again earlier than I expect, and I freeze as I realize I'm on the wrong floor. Johanna Mason, the nineteen-year-old who won the Games last year. Of course, she must be a mentor now, District Seven not having enough victors to spare.

"You look like shit," she says conversationally, by way of a hello, "what are you doing on my floor?"

"I got lost," I mutter, and she snorts with laughter.

"Denna Lazuli, right? Finnick's friend? The One girl who won ten years ago?"

"Twelve," I correct her, sticking my hand out and stopping the doors from sliding shut again. "And yeah, I am."

She looks me up and down; the sagging posture, bloodshot eyes and the broken wall behind me.

"You wanna come in?" she asks.

I am surprised- Johanna has quickly become known throughout the Capitol for her hostility towards, well, pretty much everyone. But I accept the offer nonetheless, not least because I am not in the mood for Chaff right now.

"Where's your other mentor- Blight?" I ask, looking around.

"Out canvassing for sponsors, not that it's gonna work. Lemme get you a drink." Her accent is unusual, but I like it- words are merged and spoken with funny intonations here and there, but she talks clearly and sharply, without slurring. In fact, everything about her is sharp- her wiry figure, slightly narrowed dark eyes and interrogative manner. It suits her though, to the point where it could be described as attractive.

"So what's up?" she asks, handing me a cup of black coffee. I get the impression she is somewhat starved of company- of course, I doubt Blight would let someone like her talk to potential sponsors. "You have a domestic with the asshole drunk guy from Twelve?"

"How'd you guess?" I ask, and she grins.

"Everyone knows you're fucking, and I don't think anyone else is enough of a dick to force you into the state you are now."

I nod. "Fair enough. He's just…"

"A complete cockbite?"

I laugh. "You came up with that pretty quickly."

"I decided to take being a bitch as my talent," she informs me, and I laugh again.

"You don't seem that bad to me," I tell her, and she smirks. I notice that she is stood very close to me.

"You'll just have to get to know me better," she replies, raising an eyebrow.

"I doubt I'll have much time to. You'll be back in Seven in a couple of weeks."

"That's loads of time," she decides, leaning forward and kissing me.

This is completely alien to me- not that she is a woman (which I've had plenty experience of) but that I am enjoying being kissed by someone who doesn't stink of liquor. I feel a twinge of guilt over Haymitch but push it away, pulling Johanna closer to me instead.

**A/N DUN DUN DUNNNNN. Thank you to Cruise Night and melliemoo for your reviews, and Heaven's Archer for telling me when the coding messed up the chapter.**


	24. Chapter 24

As per usual, I'm so in demand in the immediate aftermath of the Games that my first free couple of days are a month before the Harvest Festival, a few weeks before the Victory Tour begins. I call in a couple of favours, promise a few of my own, and receive a message saying that as long as I keep quiet about it, the train delivering a new batch of Peacekeepers will also take me to District Twelve.

The elaborate, jewel-like dresses stay in the wardrobe today; instead, I pull out an overlarge grey shirt and tuck it into tight pants, pulling a dark hooded jacket over the top that falls just above my knees. The boots I grab are low-heeled- for the Capitol anyway- with a good tread. Well-designed enough to fit to the Capitol's standards, the outfit seems simple and thus fitting to visit the poorest district. Before I leave my apartment, I bury my face in the collar of the shirt, which smells very faintly of moonshine liquor.

But it's Johanna I'm thinking of as I make my way to the station in the pre-dawn light, taking back roads so I am less likely to be recognised- not that Capitol citizens are likely to be walking anywhere. As Finnick had left that evening a few months ago, I had pulled her aside as she went to follow him out of my rooms.

_"Jo," I begin, then falter as her wide-set eyes narrow._

_"Let me guess," she says smoothly, "the other night was a mistake and you have to go run off into the sunset with an old drunk guy who hates everything."_

_"No!" I say hastily, then shrug. "Kind of. Though I wouldn't describe it as a mistake, necessarily, I just-"_

_She cuts me off by pressing a hand against my mouth. "Oh man, stop, you're making it worse." She raises her other hand to her forehead and pretends to swoon. "I just- I don't know how I'm going to _cope_ -"_

_"Okay, okay," I say, removing her hand from my lips and rolling my eyes, "I get it. I'm sorry for assuming you care."_

_She grins wickedly, hair all about her face in sharp brown spikes. "You're forgiven," she tells me, patting my cheek before flouncing out the door._

_"And I'm not running into the sunset after anyone!" I call out as it slams shut behind her._

Now, as I slip into one of the carriages, dark and cold and nothing like the fancy trains I used before, I muse how Johanna can deal with something like that so simply; moving on from one relationship- not that I can really call it that- to the next without a wrenching feeling of betrayal while still maintaining some degree of affection. If I could do that, it would make my life immeasurably easier- I wouldn't have to fake feelings for those who fight over my company since it would be easier to love all of them, and undoubtedly wouldn't be on a chilly train to Twelve right now. I envy her for it, but don't dwell on the thought as Peacekeepers are filing past me.

I shrink back into the shadows, suddenly thankful for this dark clothing. They know I'm here apparently, but all the same, I'd rather avoid a conversation. I slide down the wall and sit, crossing my legs, and watch the view from the window pick up pace as it flies past us. Unfortunately, around halfway through the journey when the sun has risen properly, one finally decides to talk to me.

He's young- I don't recognise him, so he can't be particularly affluent in the Capitol. Doesn't look the type to become a Peacekeeper for the honour of it, so he must have run up some heavy debts. He sits next to me, pulls off his helmet to reveal a mess of bright red hair, and grins cockily.

"Hey," he says.

I raise an eyebrow at him. "What's a guy like you doing on a one-way train like this?"

"Not one-way," he corrects me, still grinning, "just for a long time." His smile drops and he turns to stare at the wall in an expression of mock horror. "A really, _really _long time. Oh, no. What have I done?"

I laugh. "What's your name, kid?" I ask him. _Shit_, I think, _he's at least twenty. I must be old if I call him a kid._

"Darius." He holds out a hand, and I shake it. The name doesn't ring a bell, but I guess I should be glad the boy doesn't move in the same twisted, perverted social circles as I do. "What's a girl like you doing on a trip to Twelve like this?"

I smirk, and note that this is the first time somebody has called me girl without removing my clothes in a very long time. "Visiting an old friend."

"Haymitch Abernathy?" he asks. He definitely recognizes me, then.

I nod.

"Good luck trying to get any sense out of him," he says, patting my knee in a friendly manner. "The guy's normally drunk as a post."

"Oh, you have no idea," I laugh, probably a little too hard to be considered entirely normal. He looks at me funny, then stands up.

"Well, just yell if you need any company." He winks and saunters off, his uniform soon making him indistinguishable from the other Peacekeepers. I think how mundane this encounter is for most, how wonderfully unusual it has been for me, then turn back to watch the Districts fly past, wondering how drunk posts are supposed to be.

I try and figure out what my relationship with Haymitch is at this point. Not a couple, never a couple- my string of "lovers" ensured that. Yet there was attraction at first, and a trace of that still lingers I guess, though I cannot imagine why. But not enough to warrant this trip, my first time out of the Capitol in well over a decade, to see someone who hates me. He must have hated me ever since I started avoiding him, but it was me who left him- he never assumed I would go. Never tried to avoid me. And through all these Capitol sweethearts, some of which have been kind, beautiful, funny- why have I always returned to him? What is this unbreakable loyalty we have to each other?

It's then that I realize Haymitch and I are allies- in its simplest form, I can only describe it as that. An alliance, wherein we depend on each other for survival. I have no doubt that without him I wouldn't have made it through becoming the Capitol's plaything, and without me, what does he have to live for? A life in isolation, watching children he is supposed to protect die every year? Almost every time I was able to I have been there for him when the darkness approaches and it seems easier to fall asleep and never wake up, to succumb to the nigtmares, just as he has for me.

It's a concept tossed around a lot by the victors- once you go in, you never really leave the arena. _"The Games don't stop 'til you're dead." _And since that very first day in the Capitol, when I barged into his elevator and swore to work with him, there has been a bond between us that neither can break. I need him. He needs me. Love, affection, lust, they don't come into it- everything apart from mutual dependency is a bonus. I'm surprised by how long it has taken me to realize this, then I wonder if Haymitch knows. If he doesn't then he will soon, when I will turn up on his doorstep without explanation.

I don't notice Twelve until we arrive at the station- I cannot remember its surrounding scenery from my Victory Tour, which is thick, dense forest not unlike that which fringed the rock that Eden stood upon. I never really explored that part of the Arena- I feel an unexpected twinge of regret, mixed with curiosity regarding what I missed. I remember Cossie knowing the most about it, having better knowledge than the rest of us on what plants could be helpful.

I didn't get to see much of the District on the Tour, and what I did see was either scrubbed clean or hidden by masses of people. Now, at the beginning of fall woven hay decorations adorning the doors, I see it for what it truly is. The first thing I notice is the coal dust, which has settled in a fine layer over everything, from the buildings to the floor to the people, who watch me out of the corner of their eyes when I leave the train before bowing their heads to the ground as I try to meet their gaze. Most are like Haymitch, like Cossie and Jed- olive skin, dark hair and gray eyes, like they have been cooked on the coals they mine. A few are much paler, though, with blonde hair and pinkish faces- these ones look better fed, better clothed. But not more hopeful.

I have a bag with me, pulled over my shoulder; its contents clink together, the liquid sloshing about within the glass bottles. I have money for other stuff too, so I pull my hood up and walk across the cracked town square, keeping to the outskirts until I reach a bakery, its interior glowing with warmth like the oven that it houses.

It smells glorious inside; despite never really having had one, it's easy to associate the aroma of baking bread with home. Safety. I breathe deeply for a moment, my mouth watering, then walk towards the counter and pull down my hood.

There's a boy of about fourteen standing behind it. _Jed's age_, I think- my allies are around a lot today. In my nightmares last night too, screaming as blood pours out of them onto the rocks. I shake my head to bring myself to the present and note that age is where the similarities between Jed and this boy end, though- he's tall and stocky, with ashy hair and steady hands. An expression of surprise crosses his face as he recognizes me, but is gone by the time he speaks.

"Can I help you?" he asks, gesturing at the bread beneath the glass counter, still hot enough for me to feel its warmth.

"Two of those, please." He takes two plain loaves and bags them for me, and I hand over the money. "Keep the change."

"Thanks," he smiles, putting it in a drawer. All of this is very unlike the Capitol, where transactions are handled virtually and usually without a counter dividing customer and businessperson. "You here to see Haymitch Abernathy?"

"You're the second person to guess that today," I tell him, taking the bread. "I'm beginning to think I'm predictable."

He chuckles. "That's not necessarily a bad thing. Have a nice day, ma'am."

"I doubt it," I say, and he laughs again. "How do you get to the Victors' Village here?"

"There's a path to the right of the town hall," he says, "follow that, it's about a quarter of a mile."

"Thank you." I leave, significantly more cheerful than when I arrive, and follow the boy's directions to a weed-dotted path strewn with fallen leaves in all the colours of fire. They skitter around my feet as I walk, tumbling in the light breeze and dancing in irregular spirals over the neglected cobbles. Twelve has its own smell, and that smell is smoke; I remember Jed complaining about it during training. Triggers for memories like this appear often and as a rule I suppress them, but if there is ever a time for remembering my old allies it is now.

_Jed emerges from his room, towelling his hair dry after a shower. I am wedged between Cossie and Willow on floor 12's sofa, Ash is leaning against the wall behind us with his arms folded, and Haymitch is stood with Chaff in front of us, conversing under their breath as the pass a bottle of liquor between them._

_"Nice of you to finally join us," Haymitch says to his male tribute as he swaggers into the room._

_"You expect me not to make the most of this?" Jed asks in response, dropping the towel on the floor. An Avox steps forward to pick it up and carry it away to launder. "I just spent two hours in that shower, and the hot water didn't run out once. I almost got rid of the smoke smell, too."_

_"Why would you want to?" Cossie asks her cousin, "it reminds me of home."_

_"I'm not as sentimental as you, though. I'm actually very superficial," he says, which makes me snigger. "And it stinks, Coss. Let's be honest, the smell is foul."_

_"Pretty boy's gonna have a lot more to worry about than what he smells like," Ash mutters, and Jed's hand flies to his heart._

_"You really think I'm pretty?" he asks._

_"Stop flirting," Chaff cuts in, setting down the bottle. "We need to figure out what we're actually gonna do." He falters. "I have no idea what we are going to do. I miss Seeder."_

_Haymitch rolls his eyes. "Lazuli," he says, and I curl up tighter in my seat as he turns to look at me. I've never felt pinned down by anyone's gaze before him, and it's a curious sensation. "What's your plan?"_

_"Um," I say. "Um. That is a very good question."_

_"She doesn't have a plan," Haymitch says weakly, "brilliant. Bloody marvellous. Chaff, pass me the bottle."_

_"I do have one!" I say defensively, "it's… keep all of us alive until the final…"_

_"Ten," whispers Willow._

_"… Final ten, and then take out the Careers, including me."_

_"That's not a plan," Chaff tells me, "that's a very vague idea."_

_"It's still something," Cossie replies, jumping to my aid. "Have either of you got any better ideas? You are supposed to be our mentors."_

_"You have the ideas," says Haymitch, "we make the plans. That alright with you?" he adds, turning back to me. I still can't figure out what he thinks of me._

_"Perfect," I shrug. "I never was much of a planner."_

_That makes him smirk. "I noticed." He turns to Chaff. "We've still got another day of training, right?"_

_"Right," Chaff tells him, and turns back to us. "Stick close to the pet Career, kids, make it obvious she's your bodyguard so the others know you're protected, and when you're actually at the training stations, listen to the instructors and spend more time learning how to survive than killing other people." He glances at Haymitch. "Your turn."_

_"District One," he says, "you been holding back on the weapons?"_

_"A little," I tell him._

_"Don't. Don't give them an excuse to think you're weak, spend every waking moment in that basement showing off, prove to the others that you're a threat and that going near your allies isn't worth it."_

_"You want me to scare them?" I ask._

_"Exactly. No need to look so excited."_

_As I am wont to do, I stop listening for most of the evening and rely only on nudges from the other two girls to indicate when something is said that is important to me. When it's over, I stand up and reluctantly make my way back to the elevator._

_"Lazuli," Chaff calls after me, "where d'you think you're going?"_

_I hesitate. "Back to One?" I suggest._

_"Nah, you're not. Stay here for dinner, we are."_

_"You are?" Haymitch asks. "I wasn't aware of this."_

_"Try getting rid of me, brother. Come on, girl, don't just stand there like a wet blanket."_

_I'm hardly about to decline an invitation like that. "Wet blanket?" I mouth at Haymitch as I walk past, who shrugs._

_"I stopped questioning whatever he says or does years ago," he informs me, and I laugh quietly. "And just because you're staying for dinner, doesn't mean I trust you, District One."_

_"I don't mind," I say, "you'll have to start, sooner or later."_

_Dinner is fancy enough to require odd cutlery- the adults don't give a damn since there aren't any escorts here to chastise them, but the other tributes save Ash ask me to show them how to use it, since it's the sort of thing we learn in One- along with how to kill someone. The girls are alright, but Jed is hilariously bad at it, and eventually the mentors wander off to drink themselves into oblivion and leave us to it._

_"No- Jed, don't use a spoon for meat. You're not even trying anymore," I laugh, and even Ash is cracking a rare smile._

_"Just because you've had a privileged upbringing with the proper silverware, doesn't mean we all have," he retorts, attempting to spear a fish head with the handle of a spoon. It slips away from him and flies off into a corner of the dining area, and I think I hear one of the Avoxes sigh._

_"Jed," says Cossie severely, "don't be mean."_

_"It's fine," I tell her, "I've had worse than your little cousin."_

_"I'm only a finger-width shorter than you," he scowls, and finally drops the spoon in defeat and starts shovelling food into his mouth with his hands._

_"That's disgusting," I tell him._

_"You love it."_

It was days like that which I miss, for some strange reason. Despite that we were actually preparing for the Games, it was easy to forget them- at least, easy for me and the other tributes. I can't imagine how Chaff and Haymitch coped.

The sign over the entrance to the village is heavily dilapidated; the "C" of "Victors'" swings mournfully back and forth. Good mood slowly dissipating, I walk under it and towards the one house of a dozen that shows signs of habitation. It's not nearly as well looked after as the empty ones; the windows are dirty and the garden wild and overgrown. When I knock on the door, paint flakes fall onto my boots and it swings open at my touch.

Inside the house is disgusting; you can barely see the floor for piles of rubbish, and the whole place stinks of stale liquor. I find Haymitch in the kitchen, slumped asleep on the table with one hand curled protectively round an empty bottle. He looks terrible, really awful- I know victors are generally somewhat more groomed in the Capitol than they are their districts, but I can't imagine any of the others falling into a state such as this.

I know there's no point in trying to wake him gently, so I walk forwards and shove his arm. He doesn't respond and I pause for a moment, considering the best way forward. Then my foot lashes out and kicks the chair away from underneath him.

The sensation of falling wakes him just in time for him to break the drop with his hands. He spots me and without recognizing me, lunges forward with a knife I did not know he had. Instinctively, I drop the bread on the table and duck underneath his arm, before grabbing it and twisting to force him face-first, doubled over onto the table.

"It's me," I say, wrenching the dirty blade from his grasp, "calm down. Not a nightmare. And you should know better than to attack a Career."

He stops resisting and I let go, stepping back to give him room.

"If I tell you just to sod off-"

"It won't make any difference," I finish for him.

"Thought you'd washed your hands of me," he mutters, picking up the chair and slamming it back at the table.

"Trust me," I say as he sits back down, "I tried."

He watches me with narrowed eyes as I sit next to him on the edge of the table top, hooking another chair with my boot heel and dragging it over so I can perch my feet on it.

There's a pause as he continues to stare, jaw jutted out as he thinks. Then- "why now?"

"First train available," I tell him, but he shakes his head.

"No. Why'd you…" he struggles for words. "Why did you stop?" he asks eventually.

I sigh, lean across him and grab the bags. I set the bread out on the table first, on top of its paper wrapping to keep it clean, then pull out the liquor. Single malt amber, made in District One, impossible to get anywhere other than the Capitol and just as potent as the white liquor he normally drinks. A slightly sweeter taste, though. I set it in front of him.

His eyes flicker towards the alcohol, but return straight back to me. They're bloodshot, a little unfocused, but I still feel pinned down by them. "Answer the question."

I can't look at him. I lean forward, wrap my arms around my legs and rest my chin on my knees. "I lost it," I say slowly, choosing my words carefully. "I… I let go of what was real, got swept up by the Games."

"Plutarch-" he begins, but I dismiss him with a wave.

"Still in with the rebellion, of course. Not that much is happening. Last thing I heard, Lavinia and her brother ran off, got tired of waiting and tried to get to Thirteen on their own."

"Did they?" Haymitch asks.

I shake my head. "District 13 has not had any new refugees in the last year and a half," I mumble. "The Capitol must have found them first. Anyway, that's not what I meant when I said the Games."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pull a bottle towards him, but he doesn't open it. "What was real in the first place, then?"

"You," I say truthfully. I hear him shift in his seat.

"Why?" he demands suddenly. "Why let go? What set it off, what did I do that-"

"Nothing, Haymitch, it wasn't you." I think of the hours upon hours spent watching the Quell. "At least, not directly."

"Then what?"

I don't have a hope of him believing any lie I can think of- he is far too much smarter than me for that. "It was for Plutarch, okay?"

"Denna!" The impatience bites at his voice.

"Haim. Gallus Haim, the Head Gamemaker- _your _Head Gamemaker. He took my back to my Arena, to Eden." I feel the bile rise in my throat. "You can guess what happened next."

The silence stretches out for what seems like an eternity; I wait for him to say something, anything, but this unbearable silence continues.

"I didn't want to," I say, feeling very small. "It's okay if you don't want to come near me again."

Still mute as an Avox, he stands up and reaches out for my hands, hesitating a moment. I flinch when he takes them but let him pull me to my feet, and after hesitating his own hands move to cradle my face, callused fingers against my own smooth skin. I close my eyes and try to keep my breathing steady.

"Denna," he says softly, "baby, open your eyes. Please."

I look up at him, into eyes, though ringed with dark circles that are still the same rocky grey as the boy's who won the fiftieth Games. Slightly darker than the cliff face in my Arena.

"This is not your fault." his voice is low, but I can easily hear the fierceness behind it. The rage; not at me, which is what I had been terrified of for over two years now, without even realizing it. The fear that he would reject me, break off the alliance because of what I had done; even seek to punish me for it. That's why I had watched the Quell, over and over again- back then Haymitch had been safe from me. You can't get hurt by what you don't know. But no; he's mad at this forsaken situation we are in.

"This is not your fault," he repeats, "OK?"

I nod, and his hands drop from my face. He sits on the edge of the table, and I curl up next to him.

"Why me, Haymitch?" I ask.

He sighs, runs a hand over his eyes and through his matted hair. "You want the long answer or the short one?"

"Long," I say immediately. I want to stay here, away from the Capitol, for as long as possible.

"Well, get comfy." I laugh weakly.

"The first time I saw you- when you barged into my elevator- I didn't know what to make of you, I guess. Careers don't talk to outlying districts before the training scores are announced, period. Barely ever after that, unless we've got a high score or you're taunting us before we die. Playing with your food. But you were there, and you weren't- I couldn't figure out what your game was. I definitely didn't trust you, not then, not when I found out you wanted Cossie and Jed and the Eleven kids as allies, although Chaff thought it was worth a shot. He talked me round, said it was a risk worth taking with you.

"But I knew, even if you were planning on doing what you said you were going to, that you would be stupid enough to throw yourself in front of an arrow before you're half an hour into the Games. I needed to convince you to stay alive long enough, so that they had a chance. I guessed you wouldn't listen if I just told you that outright, since you were arrogant enough to volunteer two years early for a Career, so I needed to figure out how to get you to stick around.

"I'd seen the tape of your Reaping. Asked your mentor, he said nobody came to see you before you got carted off to the Capitol. Figured you'd be so starved of it, any affection I showed you would have a bigger impact than actually decent advice."

I think back to that night on the roof of the Training Centre.

_"Don't," he says sharply. "I want you out of there alive as much as I do my own tributes."_

_"Why? What the hell do I mean to you?" I ask, voice rising. He stays silent, and the anger slowly flows away. "Sorry," I murmur._

_"Don't be."_

All of that was just a ploy, a guilt trip to get me to keep alive long enough to get his tributes to the end. I cannot resent him for it; had I been in his position, and clever enough to think of it, I would have done the same.

"It wasn't until you killed the boy that I realized I actually- that you mattered."

"Jed?" I ask, and he nods.

"Then… you made it out. I- it would have been so much easier if you had died." He's right, of course. But the Capitol would never have allowed that to happen. I remember the day after my victory.

"When you gave me that bottle," I say slowly, "you were offering me the easy way out, weren't you? I thought you hated me, but it was a kindness- I couldn't have imagined the shit that was coming my way. But you could."

He looks at me. "The only reason you're alive is because I'm a selfish bastard who couldn't let you go."

I nudge him with my shoulder. "I'm alright with that," I say, and he smirks. He's despicable, of course he is- tricking me, acting only for himself, but I'm no angel either. And hell, he's done a lot more for me than I have for him. "Still, you _are _an asshole."

"And you're a moron." He kisses my forehead, then presses his own into my shoulder. "You want to know the absolute worst fucking part? Because of the stuff they've done from you, I didn't want to touch you. I was scared I'd hurt you. More scared than I had been in the Arena, than when I had been reaped."

I slip my normal hand into his. "That's funny," I tell him, "because I was paranoid you wouldn't want to go anywhere near me. But I'm tougher than I look." I stare down at our intertwined fingers- mine seem almost white compared to his. "Haymitch?"

"Yeah?" He looks up at me.

"Sorry."

"'S okay. Denna?"

"Yeah?"

He smiles crookedly, and I know him well enough to guess he's not going to apologize.

"Did I mention you're an asshole?" I ask, leaning in and kissing him. Then I pause, because something has been bugging me since I arrived. "You need a shower."

He laughs. "I probably do."

"Out of curiosity," I say, close enough still for my lips to brush against his when I talk, "what was the short answer?"

"You're everything I'm not," he tells me, kissing me again.

**A/N biiig chapter, lots of things happening, lots of characters seen and lots of stuff learned- most importantly, that Chaff and Haymitch call each other "brother". That is the most important headcanon I have ever headcanoned. Thank you melliemoo and stickycake for your reviews and the rest of you for your continued support, please enjoy and keep doing what you're doing! x**


	25. Chapter 25

In the same way you don't appreciate what you have until you lose it, some things you don't realize how much you've missed until you get them back. Like falling asleep next to someone you want to be with.

I wake up as the sun sets, creating shadows in the room in impossible shapes.

"No nightmares," he tells me, pushing my hair back from my face.

"Who?" I ask. "You or me?"

"Both."

"I don't think that's ever happened before." I can feel sleep tugging at my eyelids again but resist it, because my train leaves in a couple of hours.

He takes a few strands of my hair and weaves it between his fingers absent-mindedly.

"You okay?" I ask him. His fingers are shaking slightly, but that's just from the alcohol withdrawal. Still, he seems distracted.

"I gave up on them," he says slowly, not looking at me. "The tributes."

He's not lying- I still sponsored them anonymously, as I did with Eleven, but they never lived long enough for it to be used. The tributes from 12 for the last two years may have stood a chance, if they hadn't been vastly underprepared.

"It's not your fault," I tell him, trying to keep the disdain out of my voice. _Come on, Haymitch_, I think, _don't ruin it again so soon._

It's not true, and he knows it. "They never make it, Denna. And it's easier to watch them die if I don't care."

I shrink back from him, climb out of bed and pull on a shirt. I didn't want to get so angry with him again so quickly, but this time? He deserves it.

"You spineless bastard," I snap. "I tried to _die _for them, and you won't lift a finger to help them live." Unable to look at him, I cross to the window and grab hold of the sill so tightly my fingernails scratch into the wood.

"I never said I was a good person," he replies, and he's right. But that doesn't mean I should forgive him for being a bad one.

"Haymitch," I say, struggling to keep my voice level. "You're killing them. You're the reason they're dead, and you don't even care! Is that why you hide here, at the bottom of a bottle in this disgusting house? So you don't have to face their families?"

No reply. Instead, I hear the snap of a bottle seal being opened.

"You have to at least try," I say. "Like you used to. I'll help."

"No offence darling, but your _help_'s never been of much use before."

"Too bad." My grip tightens, and the wood splinters and cracks beneath my left hand. "You're not allowed to quit this, Abernathy."

"Too late."

"No!" I yell, spinning around to face him. "You have to! Because it's my fault too, every time they die! If I hadn't won, there might've been another Twelve mentor and you wouldn't have to do this. But I didn't, and you have to go through this shit alone every damn year. Look, if- if a Twelve kid wins, you can give up, drink yourself to death without having to worry about leaving your district mentorless. You need a reason to do this that benefits you instead of them, right? You're selfish, you only ever act in your own interests. Well, there you go. Keep one of them alive, and you get to opt out."

He stares at me and I glare back at him, breathing heavily. He doesn't do anything; speak, move, nothing.

"Fine," I say, "then do it for me. Do what I couldn't- we both know you're clever enough."

"I won't do it for you," he replies. "But I'll do it with you. Not just with you giving me your money. You have to actually do something."

"A mentor needs to care about their tributes, and be smart enough to help them live," I say. "We split the duties down the middle?"

Without standing up, he holds out a hand. Slowly, I step forward and shake it.

%

I say I have to leave an hour or so before I do, then wrap my jacket tighter around me as I wander around the scrubland at the edges of Twelve, until I find what I am looking for- a fenced off area filled with greyed planks of wood sticking up out of the ground, like nails. It looks decidedly spooky in the middle of the night, and although I've never believed in ghosts I am glad of the starlight, both in the sky and on my hand, stopping the darkness from becoming absolute pitch.

I pause at each grave, lips moving as I read the name on them, and then move on. They seem to be arranged chronologically, and after a few minutes of stuttered walking I find the three I am looking for.

I recognize Haymitch's handwriting on two of them, disfigured slightly since it is carved into rather than written on the wood. I actually notice that before I do the surname _Abernathy_, my reading skills are so poor. Next to them, a girl's name with two dates underneath; her birth and death tell me she was just sixteen when she died. Mother, brother, girlfriend- the family he used to have.

"I'm sorry," I tell the graves. "You deserved to be so much more than collateral damage."

There are wildflowers growing around the edges of the graveyard; I grab handfuls and lay them on the grave, then notice Maysilee Donner's name nearby and get some for her as well, and then all the others that died in the Games that year. It seems like such a futile action, but I think that, if I were dead, I would want to be remembered by flowers too. Even if their petals are closed and dying in the autumnal night.

I'm working my way along the row of tributes, dropping daisies and dandelions and forget-me-nots on the still frosty grass when Haymitch finds me. "Why?" he asks, and I straighten.

"I don't know," I admit. "I started off with just… with your family."

He looks at me for a moment, expression unreadable, then shrugs and walks over to the graves I originally came here for.

"You didn't have to lie to me," he says.

"I thought you wouldn't want me to come here."

"I didn't. But I wouldn't've stopped you, either." I join him, and link my arm through his.

"Also, I kind of needed to get out of your house," I say, "it's awful. It's actually worse than you are."

He laughs softly. "Be glad we were in the bedroom I never use. Are you shivering?"

"Little bit. I'm used to the Capitol." He pulls off his worn jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. "I would have thought, you being the coal district, you burn the dead."

"We do," he explains, "and this is where we do it."

"Oh." I glance right- forward in time- and see that towards the emptier end of the graveyard, some of the grass is indeed charred.

"I haven't been here for years," he says reflectively, looking down at his brother's grave. "Couldn't face them."

I know how he feels. I deliberately went backwards in time when laying flowers on the tributes' graves, for fear of finding Jed and Cossie. "Sorry for making you come out here, then."

"It's fine. You make me do things I should but don't want to." He yawns. "I'm not drunk enough to stay, though." He pulls the bottle of single malt out of the jacket of his I am wearing, and unscrews the lid. He pauses, then pours some onto the graves before taking a swig himself and handing it to me.

I shake my head. "Want to walk me back to the station?"

"Not particularly," he says, "but I will anyway."

He gives the graves one last look before he leaves, people as ashes in the dirt, covered in flowers and still, despite our best efforts, dead and gone. I want to stay amongst the calming quiet, to lie down and sleep forever, but since that is not an option I will walk with Haymitch instead.

**A/N I went back and rewrote the first couple of chapters, most significantly completely changing the beginning of chapter two, because a) I wanted to try and make Denna less Mary-Sueish and b) ****_I love writing fight scenes so goddamn much man like you have no idea_****. Anyway- enjoy, and please leave a review 3**


	26. Chapter 26

The hope that arose from my agreement with Haymitch vanishes when I see Twelve's tributes for the 73rd Hunger Games being reaped. Dark-haired- from the Seam- and skin and bone, with deadened, hungry eyes that seem to bulge out of their faces. Both no older than thirteen, they look terrified as the District Twelve escort ushers them into the Justice Building. Heart sinking, I make my way to the Training Centre to wait for them.

Districts One to Four appear to have already arrived- the mentors and tributes are not there, but other victors from those districts are, talking and laughing with the black humour that I've only ever known this group of people to have. I make my way over to Finnick and Mags, who are standing with a willowy redhead woman with her back turned to me.

"Hi," I say, hugging Mags. She mumbles her own garbled greeting in reply.

"Denna, this is Annie," says Finnick, and I turn around, surprised. Annie Cresta, in the Capitol?

She's remarkably pretty, with eyes the same cerulean color as the sea I remember from my Victory Tour. They're restless like the sea too; they flick from me to Mags to Finnick, then around at the other victors.

"Hey, Annie," I smile, a little awkwardly as I know she's supposed to be a bit… unstable. I don't want to set her off.

"Hello," she says quickly, her voice remarkably soft.

"She hasn't been to the Capitol since her Tour," Finnick explains. He looks like he badly wants to take her hand, but holds himself back. Obviously, he wouldn't want people to know how much he cared about her, for a myriad of reasons. Luckily for me, I don't have this problem with Haymitch, since the Capitol is apparently convinced he's paying for me like the rest of them. "President Snow thought she was missing out, so invited her this year especially." His tone of forced calm is laced with anger.

"Well, you can't say no to Coriolanus Snow," I point out, and Mags gives me a knowing look. "If Finnick's ever, uh, busy then you're welcome to stick with me."

Annie glances at Finnick. "She doesn't bite," he assures her, "not unless you want her to."

"Very funny, Odair."

"Thank you," Annie mumbles, bowing her head so that curtains of burgundy hair hide her face. From that point on, she doesn't speak again as I make small talk with Finnick and Mags. After a while, Chaff and Seeder walk past us, but don't have time to stop- they continue on to the elevator with their escort and tributes, two muscular kids who cannot stop staring at the impressive building. They look powerful, well fed, not too unattractive- they might stand a chance this year.

"You see the Twelve kids' reaping?" Finnick asks me, as I watch them go.

I nod, sticking my hands deep into the pockets of my skirt.

"Makes you understand why he drinks." I smile humourlessly at the comment. "You talked to him, right? Still want to rip each other's faces off, or no?"

"No, I think," I say. "Though you can't be too certain. You haven't seen them, have you? Twelve?"

He shakes his head. "They won't get here 'til the party starts, and we'll be gone by then."

I sigh. "Do you reckon I can miss it?"

"You have to meet anyone tonight?"

I nod. "A Gamemaker's wife, over in the North Quarter."

"Say you were getting ready for her, then. We'll cover for you." He jerks his head in the direction of Mags, who is talking to Gallia from Six. "After all, you're getting old. You're going to need more time to make yourself look semi-decent."

I go to punch him but he dodges, laughing. "Still more popular than you though, fish boy."

"Please," he huffs, "I'm flawless. Even you can't resist me."

"My loins are stirring even as you say that," I assure him, and he snorts. "Thanks, Finnick."

"No problem. See you later," he says, kissing me on the cheek, then puts a hand on Annie's back and guides her towards the exit.

Over the next half hour or so, the lobby gradually empties as people leave for the party. I end up with Gallia, whose morphling addiction has reached the point that she does not seem human anymore. I sit across from her on low chairs and watch her paint patterns onto a coffee table with her fingertips, patterns which only she can see. It's almost hypnotic, and I jump when I hear the doors swing open.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry!" It's a Capitol voice I recognize vaguely as the escort for District Twelve- _District Twelve!_

I stand and walk over to the entrance, where a pale-skinned woman with an elaborate wig stands with the two skeletal children. Haymitch stands behind them, scowling, completing his classic look with a bottle in one hand.

The escort glances at him and he waves her and the tributes on to the elevator, evidently meaning to catch them up. He doesn't speak until the doors slide shut behind them.

"You look like you need a drink," I say, trying and failing to be funny.

"They're not going to last five minutes," he says shortly, "with or without us helping. You should have seen them on the train up here- like they'd never seen food before. Trinket started yelling at them for not using cutlery." Trinket, I assume, is the escort.

"Did nobody volunteer for them?" I ask.

"In District Twelve? Of course not."

"Poor kids," I mutter. "They know they've got a death sentence?"

"I think so."

I nudge him with my shoulder. "We're still not giving up on them," I say.

He stares at me. "Why not?" he asks incredulously. "What's the point?"

"Because they're just kids," I say, "you can't let them die without hope."

He sighs, pulling a hand over his face. "Fine," he mutters. "But you're not allowed to speak to them."

"Why not?"

"Because you get too attached too easily. I want you to work on sponsors." There's an edge to his voice I haven't heard since before my own Games, when he was mentoring me. "Nobody's going to want to talk to me."

"There won't be much point in sponsors if they don't make it past the first bloodbath," I say, trading places with Haymitch as the pessimist in the alliance, and my voice breaks. I purse my lips and look away, blinking fiercely.

"Hey." He gives me a half-smile. "You look like you need a drink."

I laugh, and it comes out like a sob. I take the bottle he offers me and sip from it. It's moonshine, strong stuff from Twelve, and the liquor burns away the lump in my throat. "Thanks."

He plucks the bottle out of my fingers and takes a swig himself. "What I wouldn't give for a boring life," he mutters, and I sniff.

"What, really? A wife and two kids?" I think of the boy who gave me directions when I visited Twelve. "Run a bakery, live over the shop?"

"Sunday dinner," he muses, staring off into the middle distance. "Can you imagine?"

_No_, I think, _I can't_. In One, nobody lives like this. In the outlying districts, I know they try to get on with their lives outside of the Games, ignore them because nothing good can ever come from them. But I have been raised a Career, was never taught to think beyond my eighteenth birthday, or the reach of a blade. Families are for the kids that fail, that aren't good enough for the Games and so don't volunteer, instead resigning themselves to a life of servitude. As motivation, we were taught to hate the domestic life, want to avoid it as much as possible. With my parents, this wasn't difficult.

Now, after a childhood of conditioning, I would rather the life I have than that of a wife and mother. I always assumed the same of Haymitch, too- but clearly this is not the case. Maybe he wanted to marry his sweetheart from before the Games, whom I have only heard him mention once. Instead he was reaped, she was killed, and he ended up with me instead- a shellshocked prostitute who has been raised only to kill.

No wonder he drinks.

"Yeah," I hear myself say, "must be nice."

He looks at me, raises an eyebrow as he lifts the bottle again. "You're a terrible liar."

"No," I argue, "really. For you, at least. I'd hate it."

He still doesn't believe me. "What would you rather do, then?" he asks.

A life free, of the Games and everything else… "I'd be a pirate," I say. "Run away to sea, where nobody can catch me, I can fight whoever I want, and I can rescue maidens from, uh, other pirates."

He laughs. I guess my dream is as ludicrous to him as his is to me. "Night, Lazuli," he says, kissing me and walking away. I watch him reach the elevator, meandering in his path, and he leans against the frame for support until it arrives.

"You'd be a terrible baker," I decide, the taste of alcohol still on my lips. "You'd set fire to all the bread. But then, I don't suppose I'd be much of a pirate."

**A/N so, who's seen Mockingjay? Pretty good, huh? I'd even stretch to calling it the bee's knees- nooo, I didn't cry, what are you talking about? (I totally cried). Thank you to the always-wonderful melliemoo for the review!**


	27. Chapter 27

The Victors in the Capitol are expected to attend the interviews with the tributes; afterwards, many of us are often interviewed ourselves by Caesar, to find out who our favorites are- they also like to show our reactions to particularly moving parts of the exchanges. Obviously, the victors hate everything about this, but manage to get through it the same way we do everything else- by trivialising it, trying to view it as the Capitol citizens do, just a form of entertainment. Then we go home alone, engage in our vices to distract us, let the nightmares come.

In recent years, Finnick and I have developed a sort of game that helps us get through it, which we call corpsing. We take turns for each tribute- during particularly emotional parts of the interview, one of us will try to make the other corpse- that is, break character and laugh- by whispering something in their ear. If you are particularly unlucky, the camera will be on you, and you will have to explain the giggling as best you can.

Naturally, this being Finnick and I, the things we tend to whisper are quite sexually depraved- in fact, some of my ones have been said to me by my clients in total seriousness before. I'm glad there's enough victors from Four that Finnick doesn't often have to mentor (I don't think he has done since Annie, actually) because I doubt I could get through this without him. Before I knew him, I would have to leave halfway through the interviews as the flashbacks became too intense and led to me crouching in a corridor, screaming at nothing.

Anyway, I'm doing quite well this year- I haven't corpsed once, whereas Finnick has snorted somewhat unattractively a few times. We're over halfway through- Caesar is currently grilling the stony-faced tribute from Seven.

"So, Banyan," he says gently, leaning forward. "I understand you have a fiancée back home."

Cracks begin to show in the eighteen-year-old's composure- he purses his lips and clasps his hands together tightly. "Yeah," he replies sullenly, "I do."

"That must be awful," purrs Caesar, "knowing you might never see her again."

Banyan nods, staring at his knees. "I just- I want to make it back for her, y'know?"

Caesar nods understandingly. "Of course you do. But is there anything you want to say to her now, while you have the chance?"

As the tribute looks into the camera and opens his mouth to deliver a heartfelt message, Finnick puts his lips to my ears and murmurs seductively in a ridiculously over-emphasized Capitol accent:

"I'm going to wear you like a glove, pretty lady."

I choke on my drink and spit it into the wig of the woman sat in front of me, then double over with coughing and laughter. My reaction has set Finnick off, too; he has one hand clamped over his mouth as the other slaps me on the back, his shoulders heaving with suppressed mirth.

"I hate you," I wheeze, eyes watering and smudging my makeup, "so much."

After the tribute interviews, Finnick and I make our way to the Sweat Room as we normally do. Sweat Room isn't it's real name, of course, but it's accurate- everyone's hot in the small area, with the lighting blaring down on them and the excitement charging the air, meaning the more ornate costumes are shredded for equally weird but much lighter- and therefore more revealing- outfits.

We sit in the plushy sofa opposite a shiny Claudius Templesmith, Finnick with his silk shirt unbuttoned to the navel and me in a completely translucent silver shift with nothing else, which of course meant everything was showing up to and including the crystals that have been glued to the more... exclusive, shall we say, areas of my body. My male counterpart is sprawled across the seat with his head in my lap, and I am idly running my fingers through his hair in an inarguably seductive manner as the half-dozen people in the room discuss this year's reaped. Since Finnick and I are mainly here to look pretty, we can get away with not saying much about the kids being sent to slaughter, which is the way we both like it.

"I liked the pretty one," I say when my opinion is finally called for, "I can't remember her name, but she was gorgeous. She'll do well, I bet you. I bet you anything!" I declare, sitting up only to fall back into Finnick's lap.

"You do, do you?" Claudius asks, and with a laugh I cast some of my money into the virtual gambling pot shown on the screen-table in the centre of the room; the same amount I bet every year, the same amount I spend on sponsoring a tribute. "What about you, Finnick?"

"Beauty isn't everything," Finnick replies, popping the cherry from his drink into his mouth, "the boy from Four seems smart. They normally are," he adds, with a wink at the camera.

"Ugh. Don't be so vain, Odair," I retort. "We all know your face is the only reason you're still around."

"That and my body," he jokes, but we both know there's more than a ring of truth to the statement for both of us.

He gives me his jacket once the Sweat Room aftershow finishes and I wrap it round myself gratefully as we leave the studio.

"Where are you going tonight?" he asks me.

"Cicero's. Could be worse, I suppose," I say gloomily, stage smile having evaporated as soon as the cameras stopped rolling. "You?"

"Artemisia's, so at least I'll get a good tip. Mags and Dorsal are mentoring this year, so my schedule's pretty free."

"D'you really think your male tribute might win?" I ask him, and he shrugs.

"I try not to think about what's going to happen anymore. It's hard enough getting through it one day at a time."

"Good point. Do you want your jacket back?"

He shakes his head. "It'll only come straight off again anyway. Night, Denna."

"See you later."

We joke about the lives we lead, because it's easier than acknowledging how messed up they really are.

**A/N this has just passed 100 followers and I'm so ridiculously happy like wow thank you all so much you're all so wonderful. Have a double update as a thank you xx**


	28. Chapter 28

I watch the opening of the 73rd Games with Haymitch, see the tributes from both Eleven and Twelve get slaughtered by a pretty girl from One. Effie Trinket is there too; she talks constantly throughout it, commenting on everything from the outfits designed for the Arena (close fitting body armour for city ruins) to how unlucky the girl from Twelve was to be stabbed in the back, before even a minute had passed. Haymitch watches with dull eyes, and when the cannon fires for the boy, walks silently to his room and slams the door behind him. Trinket tuts loudly.

I thank her for letting me watch it with them, which mollifies her somewhat. She may be a stereotypical shallow Capitol citizen, but she's more dedicated than any other escort I've met, which makes me feel almost sorry for her, being allocated to Twelve and Haymitch.

I say my farewells and leave, find Johanna (whose tributes also did not survive the bloodbath) and spend the day throwing knives with her at my apartment decor.

"So you didn't talk to Abernathy?" she asks, walking across my spare room and wrenching the breadknife out of the wall. "Why not?"

I shrug, wait for her to walk back to me and hurl a short throwing blade at the wooden panelling. It settles with a satisfying thud in a mark created last year. "If he wanted me to, he would have stayed."

"What, in front of that escort woman?" She swears as her knife hits the wall with its hilt and bounces back off. She insists she is better with an axe, but I refuse to let her demolish my apartment to that extent. "You really think? He probably wanted you to follow him, so you could console each other with miserable sex."

I roll my eyes. "Sure."

"What, you really think he wanted you there just to watch?" Looking down, she uses a knife to pare off a hangnail on her finger. "First time in, what, two three years he's got you back and then he just ignores you when his tributes bite it?" She flips the knife over and lobs it, and this time it sticks.

I stare at her. "Oh shit, you're right. I just left him with Trinket." Guilt begins to overwhelm me.

"Sod me, you're dumb." She looks somewhat amused. "Just go and talk to him now, then."

"I've got to be somewhere in twenty minutes," I shake my head. "Seneca Crane seems to be getting quite attached."

"The Head Gamemaker?" she asks, surprised. "Isn't he making Games?"

"Apparently the Head gets the second day off, because nothing ever happens."

"Well, I guess you can't turn him down. I'll pass on a message though, if you want."

"Really?"

"If it stops you looking so damn miserable." She gathers up the knives and shoves them in a drawer.

"I didn't think you two knew each other."

She lifts a shoulder. "While you lot are all being nice to each other, me and him just sit in a corner being angry and bitter." My lip twitches- her description paints a funny picture, one I can imagine easily. "No need to get jealous though, I'm not about to steal him from you. Can't imagine why anyone would want _that_, let alone how he managed to pull you. What do you want me to tell him?"

"That I'm an idiot," I say, and she snorts.

"Trust me, he already knows that. When are you next free?"

I think ahead. "I won't have time to see anyone until the finale ball." This happens on the evening of the day the Games are won, and is not so much a ball as a citywide party. The most important people tend to gather in the President's mansion, though, so it's not much of a stretch to meet anyone then.

"I'll talk him into going to that, then. And if not, I'll bribe him with the best single malt Panem has to offer."

I laugh. "Thanks," I say, stepping forward, but she throws up her hands.

"Under no circumstances hug me. I don't do hugs. Now go screw Crane, and try not to look so depressed while you're doing it."

%

Crane wants me to spend the finale ball with him, glued to his side. A Career won; the boy from Two, having caved in Banyan's head with a brick. Using part of the Arena as a weapon is always one of the Capitol's favourite ways to kill, so the Games this year are already being considered an all-round success.

From the moment we arrive praise is heaped upon Crane, and I understand why he wanted me; having one of the most beloved victors as your date completes the picture of a perfect Head Gamemaker. However, it also means the evening is mind-numbingly dull for me, as I am not allowed to leave him to see anyone I would like to, and they all despise Gamemakers too much to come talk to me. So I kind of switch off, in the way I do when with people who pay for me, and go on autopilot to talk and flirt and laugh and dance, and try not to think about how hungry I am.

It's about midnight- early for a party like this- when Johanna seeks me out, dragging a surprisingly sober Haymitch along with her. Well, I wouldn't say sober exactly, but he's not as flat-out drunk as he would be in a place that supplies free alcohol. He's still upright, he only staggers a little, and he has not yet thrown up.

Crane is surprised to see them, but hides it well. Thankfully Johanna's smart, and talks like she wanted only to see him- "I'm just in _love _with the aesthetic of the whole Arena, y'know? Really dystopian, I can't remember the last time we had something like that."

"Well, if you were my age you would," replies Seneca, and I giggle.

Haymitch hasn't said anything; his eyes are fixed on Seneca Crane's hand, which is slipped just beyond the seam of the backless dress I am wearing. It occurs to me that this is the first time he has seen me with any of my clients, and for the first time in years I become uncomfortable with this display of intimacy.

Johanna notices our expressions, and looks as if she is restraining from rolling her eyes with extreme difficulty. "So," she trills, sounding extremely unlike her, "what was your thought process for the whole thing?" She slips an arm through the crook of Crane's elbow and pulls him away from me into the crowd, chatting incessantly.

I watch her go in amazement. "That girl is a treasure," I remark, and Haymitch snorts with laughter. The song changes and the partners intermingle. "Dance with me," I tell him, and without waiting for an answer take his hand and pull him into the centre of the room.

Back in the Arena, Jed once told me that Twelve can dance better than all the other districts combined. Certainly, Haymitch has much better coordination than I would expect from someone who consumes that much liquor. It's a simple dance though, created for private conversation at a ball more than everything. He holds my right hand in his left out to the side of us, and watches them instead of me.

"I'm sorry I walked out," I say. "I didn't realize you wanted me to follow you."

He raises an eyebrow at me, and his lip curls slightly. I struggle to keep a straight face, then give up and laugh.

"Yeah, I know," I admit, "I'm an idiot."

"You just can't stop reminding me of it, can you Lazuli?"

I shrug. "Were you okay?"

"I managed to find some solace at the bottom of a bottle, don't worry. Is that all Johanna dragged me out for? I could be back in the Training Centre, passed out on the sofa by now."

"Yes, and sorry I wasted your time."

"I'll get over it. Now what?"

"Any suggestions?"

It's his turn to shrug. "Parties are your area of expertise, I dunno. Awkward small talk?"

"Don't you dare," I reply quickly. "I've had enough of that with Crane this evening. If one more person mentions how nice the weather's been recently, I'm going to start throwing punches." He chuckles. "Any better ideas?"

He thinks for a moment, looking over my shoulder, then his gaze sharpens as he turns back to me. "What's it like being raised a Career tribute?"

I stare at him, surprised. The question takes me aback because he's never expressed any interest in my life before the Games, any more than I have his. Then I understand why he asks.

"You want to know how to take us down," I say, "don't you?"

"If it means next year's kids stand a chance," he replies. "No offence."

"None taken." I think back, and memories of rivalry and backstabbing flood back to me.

"The Games are the first and last thing you learn about. The District business- we get taught about some of the basics, along with math and writing and stuff, but it's clear they think that's for the kids who fail at training. If you get to the point where you're good enough to volunteer, you won't need to know a skill to get a job, since you'll either be dead or swimming in riches. The Games are everything for us- the pinnacle, the summit, everything we work towards. Nobody thinks beyond their nineteenth birthday, because to do otherwise would be admitting defeat.

"So everyone's desperate to be the kid who volunteers. I mean, really. We fight and kick and scratch to make our way to the top of the class, literally, and the teachers encourage it because it's good training for the Games. You don't have friends- you pretend to have alliances, but they get broken off pretty easily since everyone's so aware they're working against each other. And if you begin to slack off, they kick you out of training and you have to figure out how to stay alive 'til your nineteen, when you can start learning something useful.

"And not only do you want to be on top, but you want more people at the bottom, getting kicked out, so there's less competition. You don't get second chances- you fall behind, people take advantage of your weakness, rip into you until you can't carry on, get kicked out and spend the rest of your life as a silversmith or whatever.

"We don't just learn how to fight, despite what the other districts might think. Unlike Two, they teach us how to win the parts of the Games outside of the Arena- how to excel at interviews, proper decorum and things, and that's really why One is so successful, I think. We know there's more to the Games than just being able to survive, you need to get people to like you.

"Your actual fighting skills get picked out pretty early on, and then you work on that until they're as good as they get. So the big kids get sent to handle weights and swords, the stuff for up close fighting, and the smaller ones learn how to use bows and throwing knives."

"What about you?" Haymitch asks me, as we resolve slowly on the spot.

"I was in between. Strong enough to hold my own in melee, but not enough to use a big weapon. So they gave me daggers and long knives to train with instead, until they became extensions of myself. I was taught to always be the weaker one in a fight, to get beneath and up close to my enemy so I could kill them. If you're close, there's no room to swing a sword or axe or anything. But there's plenty space for a knife. So in a battle, I was never in control until the last second, never attacking, always avoiding. I became so used to my partner having power over me, it was one of the few things I accepted easily when Snow decided to…

"Anyway, Careers are dangerous because they have nothing to lose and everything to gain. And we were never taught that murdering someone was crossing a line, instead that having somebody's blood on your hands is at best an achievement and at worst just another job to be done. The Games are an unavoidable part of our lives in a way that they aren't for the other districts. We'll do anything to win."

"You didn't," Haymitch reminds me. As the music reaches a muted crescendo, he lifts his arm and I spin beneath it.

"But here I am." The song finishes and I kiss him on the cheek. "See you later, Haymitch." Without looking at him, I make my way back to Seneca.

%

I can't, I won't leave him for another year with his last memory of me being my leaving him for the Head Gamemaker. The next free time I get is at two in the morning; were it anyone else I wouldn't bother, but Haymitch won't be asleep while it's dark, and harder to distinguish between dreams and reality.

The Training Centre is silent with the ghosts of dead tributes; the winning district for this year has already returned home, and the other mentors are still too ashamed to return, or even leave their floors. The _ping _of the elevator doors opening is unpleasantly loud, and it rings in my ears as I ascend.

Effie must be in her Capitol home, because nobody is interrupting the crashes echoing round level twelve.

"Haymitch?" I call, but too softly for him to hear me over the ruckus. I follow the noise to the dining area, where he's pulling it apart and scrounging through the mess. There must be a broken bottle somewhere, because his hands are bleeding. "What are you doing?"

He yanks out a drawer, pauses, then throws it behind him- silverware scatters across the floor and knocks against my shoes. "I've ran out." His voice is shaking and he presses a hand to his mouth, leaving a bloody smear on his chin.

"Of alcohol?"

"What do you think, One?" he turns and yells at me. Between his Twelve accent, tremors and slurred speech, I can barely understand him, but his desperation is clear. Anger, too.

_You won the Hunger Games_, I remind myself, _there is no way you're scared of him_.

"Well," I say, "you're not going to find any in a cutlery drawer."

He spits and wrenches a cupboard door off its hinges. "Get out."

"You really think-"

"NOW!"

I turn and run, but instead of pressing the button for the lobby I go to the floor of District 6. Just as I expected, Gallia is there, sat on one of the overstuffed chairs with a needle in her arm. She looks up as I come in, eyes wide and glassy.

There's next to no point talking to her when she's like this, so I just nod to her and cross to her drinks cupboard in a few strides. It's stuffed with liquor, since most people I know are particular with their vices. I grab a few bottles of the strongest stuff I recognize, then sprint back to the elevator.

"You're not getting rid of me that easy," I say as I return to the penthouse.

In the minute or so I was gone, Haymitch has crashed completely. He's knelt in the center of the mess, staring at his reddened hands as if wondering how the blood got there. He grabs handfuls of his hair and yanks his head downwards, and screams- a nasty, guttural scream.

"Haymitch!" I crouch down next to him, too scared to touch him. "It's real, Twelve, you're not dreaming. I've got drink, baby, please come back. I'm not a mutt, I promise."

As gently as I can I lay a hand on his shoulder, but he screams again. It's muffled this time; he's biting down on his arm. But that means he's trying to keep quiet, trying not to freak me out- he knows he's awake.

"Come on, Abernathy." I shift round and sit in front of him. "Look at me."

He lifts his head and stares at me like I'm the only thing keeping him sane- which, right now, could well be true. _Keep it together_. I pull my sleeve down and wipe the blood from his face.

"Do you want a drink?" I ask him, because slowly poisoning himself has been his only option for over twenty years now, if he doesn't want to lose his mind completely. He nods, and I pull him up into a sitting position, wrapping his fingers round one of the bottles. "Slowly, or you'll shock your system." I stand up and scrabble through the mess until I find the first aid kit, then go back to him, sit down and pull one of his hands into my lap. I pour some of the alcohol on his cuts to clean them, then bandage them clumsily. I was never a medic. We sit in silence for a few minutes, until he stops shaking.

"Someone's going to have to clean this up," he mumbles.

"You could let the Avoxes do it," I point out.

He shakes his hand, grinding his teeth together. "Not their problem."

"Then I'll help you."

"Not yours either."

"No," I admit, "but _you're _my problem, remember?"

He grabs my hand, runs his thumb over my tattoo. "Vaguely."

He leans against me and I kiss his forehead, pushing his hair back with my other hand. "I'm not leaving until you're okay."

He laughs weakly. "You might be here a while then, darling."

"Nearly okay, then," I concede. "Until you're safe."

"I told you to get out."

"I'm a naturally contrary person," I point out. "Really, I'm just staying here to spite you."

We sit in silence for a minute or so, until he speaks again.

"Denna?"

"Haymitch?"

"Don't ever become an alcoholic."

"I wasn't planning on it," I assure him, still running my fingers through his hair.

"You can stop mollycoddling me now."

"I don't actually know what that means," I say, but I get the gist. I stand up and dust the debris off my clothes, chewing my lip as I figure out where to start with the mess.

"Bitten off more than you can chew, One?" he asks.

"Glad to see you're getting back to your old self," I mutter. Experimentally, I kick a cupboard door into a corner. "That looks… marginally better." I turn round, stretch out a hand and pull a reluctant Haymitch to his feet. "Come on, you useless wreck of a man. Help me."

I've seen his house- I should have known he'd be awful at cleaning. Still, I manage to get most of the detritus piled in one corner, and what is salvageable has been tidied away as best I could. By the time I finish Haymitch has returned to his usual level of surliness, sat on the side next to the cutlery with his bottle. As I'm counting out the forks, one of his hands wraps around my waist and pulls me closer so I'm stood between his knees.

"Thanks for the help, Twelve," I say.

"You had it covered," he replies. "Besides, I did help some."

"You moved a chair."

"That's one chair more than not doing anything," he argues, and I laugh.

_I love him_, I think. _How about that? _Love had never been part of the plan, not ever- it creates too many attachments, too many reasons to live. But here he is and here I am, somewhat questionably, in love with my one true ally, District Twelve's sole victor. I could probably do better, but I could also do a lot worse.

I lean forward and kiss him, lingering longer than usual until I'm getting a little lightheaded from the taste of liquor.

"What was that for?" he asks, when I break off.

"Tide you over 'til next year," I say. "Who knows? You might actually manage to get one to stay alive this time round."

I don't think he believes me. "Maybe."

"That's the spirit. Now return the favour, will you?"

It was never the plan to fall in love with someone who makes me feel like I am thawing from the inside out when they kiss me with drunken lips and heavy hands. Haymitch is my weakness; I wouldn't have it any other way.

"You know what I like about you, Lazuli?" he asks, murmuring the words as he kisses my neck.

"What?"

"That you put up with… me. This. The drink."

We break apart and I fiddle with the buttonhole in his jacket as I think. "I'm never gonna try to fix you," I respond, "we're never going to have… those soul-bearing conversations where it's like light switching on or whatever and everything's magically fixed. We're just trying to keep each other alive, nothing else. I'm not going to try and… _mend _you.

"Plus, it's that I- I get it, I think. We all have this, this character, a persona that the Capitol gives us, like the ditzy slut or the bitter alcoholic, and it's the characters that the people know, that they're attached to. The characters are what keep us alive, just like the impression we put across in tribute interviews. But it goes deeper than that- the persona becomes kind of this mask you hide behind, y'know? You just have to think what your character would do in x situation, and you do it. And it helps you get through the day and you become sort of… dependent on it. Like- like I don't ever think I'll be able to get rid of the Career in me, the flirt in me, because it's how I survive. Same goes for you and the drink, I reckon. It's the framework that keeps us upright… are you _laughing _at me, Haymitch Abernathy?"

"No," he says, and snorts with barely-suppressed mirth.

"You son of a bitch!" I exclaim, lightly punching his shoulder. "I try to say something meaningful for once in my life and you _ruin_ it."

"Sorry," he says, though he can't stop snickering. In the end, I have to give up and laugh too.

I mean what I just told him, but there's another part I didn't get to say- that around other victors, around those who understand, we can let that mask slip a little. The drunkard can show how much the alcohol he's dependent on is ruining him, the ditzy slut can say something meaningful, confess that she feels love, not lust. We can be more than what the Capitol ascribes to us, and that's why we've bonded together in this half-formed little rebellion; to prove that we are more than a character on the screens of Panem, that we are people and we deserve to live as such.

Together.


	29. Chapter 29

Deep into the winter before the 74th Games, I awake in a client's house (the woman who regulates the sentencing of criminals in Panem, in fact) to the sound of someone crying, begging outside the bedroom. I recognise the voice of my client pleading with someone and slide out of bed, heading towards the half-open door through which artificial light spilled. "Dido?" I say in a hushed voice, but she doesn't hear me.

I peer round the door and see her stood naked in front of her - well, I guess he must be her husband, since nobody else could be acting like that to her. He's shouting, screaming obscenities at her, something about wasting his money on whores. That must be me, then.

"I'm not paying for your fucking obsessions anymore! It's ruining us, woman, and what am I supposed to do when my wife's cheating on me with a victor?"

"Please," Dido wails, "I'll stop, I promise I'll stop, just stop yelling, _please_ stop yelling!"

"NO! I'm sick to the teeth of this!"

"But I only-"

"_ENOUGH!_" I jerk back from the door as I hear the smack of skin connecting with skin, and a thud that must have been Dido falling to the floor. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop?" the man yells, and I move back to the door to watch him storm out, slamming the front door of the apartment behind him.

_Shit_, I think, shit. "Dido?"

"Leave me alone," she sobs, still curled up on the floor. I sigh, and walk into the kitchen to fill a towel with ice. "What're you doing?"

"Helping, honey." I sit down next to her and place my fingers under her chin, tilting her head up to face me. There's already a black eye blossoming across the right side of her face, and where the skin has split there's a dribble of blood gluing her eyelashes together. I press the towel of ice to the side of her face and she winces.

"I wish you hadn't seen that," she mumbles, and I cluck my tongue.

"This has happened before," I say, "hasn't it?" I don't have to be clever to notice the old bruises she hides with good make up, and besides, it happens with a lot of my clients. When I get hit, it's usually sexual; this is just anger and cruelty.

"A few times. Before I met you, he was still like it. But he's always sorry afterwards…"

I purse my lips. "Do you love me, Dido Featherwick?"

She stares at me. "More than anything," she says, "I was one of your first sponsors. Why, do you... Do you love me?"

No, not really. But I do pity her, and that counts for something. I want to help. "Of course I do," I console her, pushing a strand of her sky-blue hair behind her ear, "why else would I be your lover?" That earns me a little smile from her. "Do you love him?"

"I..."

"It's okay, honey," I say in an attempt to soothe her, "you can tell me. I'm good at keeping secrets."

"... No," she says at last, "I did once, but not anymore. Not now I have you."

I feel guilty, but it's a long-familiar guilt and easy to push aside. "Dido," I say, "do you want him dead?"

If you asked someone in the districts that, with the possible exception of the Careers, they would be horrified. But this is the Capitol, and murder is a part of their culture both in the assassinations and the Games. "Yes," she said, "well, no, but... I want him gone. And he... He deserves it."

"That's what I thought. Next time I'm round, I'll bring you some pills. They'll work, Dido. Take my word for it."

"What... Where is all this coming from?"

"I don't like bullies," I tell her, "and I am a Victor. And I want the people I love to survive, and I've seen couples like this before. It'll keep getting worse, Dido. You know it will."

She grips my hand tightly. "I can't ask you to do this for me, Denna."

"You don't have to. Just... remember that you owe me a favour, okay?"

I can hear Plutarch's voice in the back of my brain, telling me how Dido is on the verge of Snow's inner circle. But there's also a much louder voice, my own, screaming _stop you idiot, stop! Do you want another person's blood on your hands? She's not even worth it!_

I ignore both of them, and kiss Dido better for the rest of the night. When the night is at its darkest she's finally asleep, slumbering peacefully at the thought of an escape from her husband, and I bolt back to my own apartment with my fists clenched and shaking. I make for the telephone and call Haymitch on instinct, only then remembering that he broke his own line ages ago. _What do I do now? _I think, suddenly feeling very alone. Who am I supposed to tell about this? Not Finnick, for fear it might inspire him to do the same thing, Johanna would hardly be a comfort, and Chaff is just useless at things like this. Then I remember another number, and shove my dining table against the wall so I can sit down while I call it.

"Hello?" a voice asks groggily, and I curl up.

"Seeder? It's me."

"Denna?" Seeder says in a low voice, and I remember she has grandkids, tiny ones that she must be trying not to wake up. "What is it?"

"Nothing," I say quickly, "it's not important, I'll let you get back to sleep."

"No you won't," Seeder tells me, "I'm awake now, and I'm not letting you get me out of bed for nothing."

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. Just tell me what's upset you."

I don't bother to ask how she knew; Seeder's good at stuff like that. She even knows when something's up with Haymitch, and he's such a constant level of surliness it should be impossible to tell. "I, um… I think I did a bad thing, Seeder. Or at least, I promised I would and now I have to."

"Can you tell me about it?"

The District 11 victors know about the rebellion, although they aren't as involved as some of us- I suppose she thinks I _did _do something for Plutarch. "Yeah, I…." I gulp. There's no way they would arrest me for assisted murder, even if the line was bugged, and Dido's so important in Snow's government she's got immunity from the laws she helped create.

"Denna?"

Am I crying? I think I might be crying. I wipe my nose on my sleeve and return my attention to my confidante. "Sorry," I say again, "there's this, there's a lady who I, um… she gets beaten up quite badly by her husband. And I didn't think, I just told her I can call in some favors and help her and I, I just wanted to help-"

"Breathe, sweetheart. It's okay, you're okay."

I swallow back down the lump in my throat and continue. "I thought I had stopped killing people, Seeder. Why can't I just fucking _think_ before I open my big dumb mouth?" I end up shouting, and kick a chair in frustration. "Fuck."

Seeder's quiet for a moment before speaking. "And you can't go back on your word?"

"You know I can't."

"Right." She's silent again for a moment, and then I hear a kid yelling in the background. "Nana's busy, Bran! I'll be there in a moment!"

I smile. "Isn't it the middle of the night?"

"Three-year-olds don't understand time. Denna, why did you do it?" She doesn't ask in an accusatory way, which is the only reason why I answer.

"Like I said, I wanted to help," I reply, picking at a loose thread on my stockings. "But good intentions never mean that much anyway, do they?"

"Hmm. And how would you feel if you had just done nothing, and carried on letting this woman be knocked about?"

"Bad, I guess," I say.

"Look – there's no excusing the terrible things people do, sweetheart. But at least you did _something_, and trust me, you would have felt much worse from inaction than you do now."

"No offense," I say, "but I don't believe that."

"I've learnt it from experience," Seeder says, and I realize she must be talking about her own Games.

I figure it's probably a good idea to steer the conversation away from murder, at this point. "How are Bran and… and…." It definitely begins with T… Turnip, maybe? No, that can't be it.

"Twyla," she says amusedly.

"Twyla! How are they, anyway?"

"Very loud and excitable," Seeder tells me, "they live up here in the Victors' Village, since it's safer for them. I can't stop them from being taken out to work in the fields when they come of age, but at least it helps a little."

Can't stop them from being reaped, either. It would be nice, I think, if the revolution actually started sometime soon, so that Seeder wouldn't live to see her grandkids get reaped. It was a miracle none of her children were, and the Capitol won't miss this time round.

"That sounds… nice?" I guess, and she laughs.

"You're as bad as Haymitch."

"Am not!"

"Well," she says, "_almost _as bad. Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah. Thanks for picking up, Seeder."

"Anytime. And I'd recommend getting some sleep, too."

I bid her goodbye and hang up, mind inevitably returning back to the matter of Dido. Seeder may well be right, but the matter still remains that I need to procure some poison…

_We're at war, _I tell myself, _doing awful things is kind of the point. _I crawl into bed with the intent of sleeping all morning, wrapped up in one of Haymitch's shirt with the guilt crawling over me more than it has done since I was a teenager.

I run myself a bath to clean the smell of Dido off of me before my next client, and take a portable screen with me to arrange a meeting with the man who will sell me the poison. When I've done that I hold my breath and sink beneath the surface of the silky water, counting, seeing how long I can stay down here…

I surface with a gasp and lean forward, arms lolling over the sides of the tub. It's times like these when I wish I had succeeded in dying thirteen years ago. I can see my wavering reflection in the water, barely recognizable as the same girl who volunteered.

"Never thought you'd end up here, huh?" I say, "you weren't even supposed to be pretty." I flick the reflection, making it distort and ripple. "Thanks for the face, mother. Without it, I would probably be another plain old Victor back in One… most likely getting lynched for screwing over the Career system, but still."

She wasn't clever, my mother, or particularly talented; she had never even completed training. But she had a body people lusted after, and that's what saved her. I don't even know what her name was, my memories of her consisting mainly of a safe, warm smell and arms, picking me up before I was old enough to even crawl, when her body hadn't started to rot. The whole of the tiny house had stunk of overripe flesh...

"Stop wallowing in your own self-pity," I tell myself, "this isn't going to help things. You have a..." I bite my lip. "I have a man to help kill."

**A/N thank you so very much to Padfootsbane (great name), urmessismine and melliemoo for your reviews! In other news, the most practical use for my Classics A Level so far has been coming up with names for Capitol citizens.**


	30. Chapter 30

I wake up groggy on the day of the 74th reaping, reluctantly leaving my bed and dragging myself to the bathroom. In the mirror, I scrutinize myself closely- without make up, I can just see the faint lines forming at the outer corners of my eyes. Crow's feet, the Capitol call them. I wonder how much longer I can get away with them before someone complains, and I am sent away to have my skin polished and toxins injected into my face again. Not that I would object much at this point, it's just… I like seeing that I've aged. It's reassuring to know that I will inevitably wither and die, and the Capitol will no longer have me.

With that happy thought, I shower and wrap myself in a thoroughly unsexy robe, then curl up on my sofa and switch the screen on. It had been decided that the previous victors all gathering in the Training Centre on reaping day looked unprofessional and we have been ordered to avoid congregating in front of the tributes. More likely, the President doesn't want us giving them ideas about unification- at least that's what Plutarch Heavensbee thinks. He passed the message on via Cressida, a woman I know vaguely as one of those who works behind the cameras instead of in front of them. The gatherings of the Capitol rebellion had been less frequent and more subdued of late, since Lavinia and Verres (her brother) disappeared. It reminded the frivolous citizens how dangerous the whole thing is.

It's rare that I'm alone- even in my free time I prefer the company of others, seeking out my friends during the Games and networking and attending parties outside of them. But these unusual moments of peace are occasionally welcome, as it is now. I hook one leg over the back of the sofa, scrape my hair back from my face and tie it up, and lounge back without a care for my appearance.

The tributes seem to fit perfectly with the stereotypes of their districts- the teenagers from One are attractive as the kids from 2 are fierce, Four are confident and tanned with bronze hair that ripples in the sea breeze, and- I tune out for a while- 11 are quiet and withdrawn. I drain the dregs of my third cup of coffee as Effie Trinket totters on to the stage in District Twelve.

Haymitch appears late; he staggers onto the podium and hugs Trinket, knocking her wig askew. I have the television muted; it makes it easier somehow. Perhaps it's because I can't hear Caesar and Claudius' lighthearted comments and jokes about these children, who have just been sentenced to either death, or a lifetime of nightmares. Which is why it takes me a few seconds to understand the commotion that happens when the girl is reaped.

Because someone else has volunteered in her place.

The reaped girl is tiny, terrified; her clothes are a little too big for her and she screams at the other one when she volunteers. This one is older, has the features of a kid from the Seam, but her skin is a little paler (she must have a merchant ancestor) and she's better fed than one would expect. The desperation in her face that she won't be heard as she volunteers indicates that the girl is close to her- a sister, most likely. When she makes it to the stage Haymitch hauls himself up, talking first to her and then turning to the cameras. He's angry; spittle flies from his mouth as he lurches towards the edge of the stage, then falls off it and is knocked unconscious. I hear the woman in the apartment next to mine cackling through the wall.

But a volunteer in an outlying district? I don't think anyone can remember the last time that happened. And not even because she wanted to win- she wanted to save that girl, and most likely gave her life to do so. A sob story the Capitol will love, and I doubt anything else this year will be able to top it.

And then the male is reaped, and I recognize him with a jolt. It's the baker's boy, the one who gave me directions to the Victors' Village- _what are the chances? _I think wildly. I muse on how unlucky I am, then immediately hate myself for focusing on how this affects me and not him. That's not who I'm supposed to be- I shouldn't have a thought for myself over those people, it's the one morale I have left. I've been in the Capitol too long.

I switch the screen off and stride into my bedroom, get halfway to being fully dressed before remembering I have nowhere to be tonight. Still, I carry on, to avoid sitting there indulging myself like the rest of the Capitol is doing right now. Once I'm dressed, I make myself up to the nines- it's been years since I've needed a prep team. Smoky eyeliner, lips red and glistening like blood, hair coiled into a loose bun at the base of my neck- by the time I've finished, pulling on heels that should be impossible to walk on, I'm a sight that would make most weak at the knees.

With my weapons tidied away, my beauty is my power- with it, I hold influence over more than half the Capitol. They may not realize it, since they pay for me and control my time- but that is how I have always fought. Let your opponent think they have power until the last moment, then show that they never had control over you.

But what use is this power? It's not like I know what to do with it. I slip a ring on over my tattoo and leave the apartment, go down into the street where parties have overflowed onto it. Just low-key house gatherings, not the exclusive events I attend. I retreat back up the outdoor steps and sit halfway up on the cool metal stair, loose skirt flapping about my thighs. Out of sight, I watch the shadows grow longer and the people drunker. It gets cooler and the night air pricks at my skin, but I don't want to go back to my comfortable apartment with its luxuries and indulgences. I stay out here in the cold, let my legs go numb as my hair is pulled out of its bun.

There's no stars because of the light pollution, which means I don't know what time it is when Haymitch sits down beside me and snaps open a bottle of liquor. Everyone else has retreated to their homes though, so it must be late- or maybe early.

"How's the head?" I ask him, shifting my weight so I lean against him.

"Brrr. You're freezing." He pulls off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, then wraps his arm around me. "And there's no permanent damage, except to my dignity. What little I've got left of it."

I laugh, and notice my teeth are chattering. "How are they?"

"Fighting back," he tells me. "Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. With some training, they- I think they might stand a chance."

"Really?" I ask him. "Both of them?"

"Well, there's only one winner, right?"

"You're going to have to choose," I say, and the shiver isn't from the cold.

"Thanks for reminding me, darling."

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." He sets the bottle down and pushes the hair back from my face, and kisses me between my eyebrows. "Better one of them than neither."

"Better both than one. Better _all _of them."

"Don't get all revolutionary on me now, Lazuli. I have to get back to the Centre in an hour."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "An hour, huh?" I slip my arms round his neck and kiss him, rising up on to my knees. Warmth spreads from the pit of my stomach as his hands move to my waist, and I grab his shirt to pull myself against him.

"I'm not going to have sex with you on a staircase," he murmurs.

"Well, we'd best get inside then."

We stumble up the stairs, somehow still managing to stay wrapped around each other, then slip through the doorway and into the bedroom. I fall backwards onto the bed and pull him down on top of me, and he begins to fumble with the front of my dress. Giving up with the complicated fastenings, he just tears it open and pulls it from my shoulders. With steadier fingers I unbutton his own shirt, and his lips move to my neck, my shoulder. I wrap my legs around his waist as his fingers follow the curve of my ribs- then the phone rings.

"Don't answer it," Haymitch says immediately, but I pull my dress back up as I try and steady my breathing.

"Have to." But he follows me to the phone, kisses my throat ever so gently as I answer it. I elbow him in the chest, which has no effect whatsoever. "Yes, of course. Give me twenty minutes." I hang up and lean back against him, closing my eyes so the only thing I am aware of is us. But this is a luxury I cannot afford to maintain.

"Haymitch," I turn around and press my forehead against his, "baby, I have to go."

"No, you don't."

"Yeah, I do. Unfortunately you have to share me."

"Don't want to." He tries to kiss me again, but I put my hand up over his mouth.

"Don't make it any harder for me, okay? Go back to the kids, they need you more than I do right now."

He pulls my hand down. "What, at two in the morning?"

"They're your priority, Twelve. Not me. Now go and drown your sorrows."

"Can't," he mumbles. "Promised the girl I'd stay sober enough to mentor them."

"I like her already." I pull away from him, go to change my ruined dress. "Go. Or else the guy who wants me is gonna start complaining."

"Denna, wait."

I pause, peering at him around the wardrobe door. "What?"

"Seeder told me about Featherwick."

My heart drops to about knee level. "Oh."

"If I were you," he says, "which I don't really have the legs for, but still… if I were you, I wouldn't let it get to you. You've done worse, after all."

His attempt at consolation is so terrible I burst out laughing. "You are genuinely awful, y'know."

"That's kinda the point." He gives me one last chaste kiss, around the wardrobe door. "You wouldn't last two minutes in the Capitol by being a good person."

And that's it. That's all I needed for the whole Dido affair to sit well with me; knowing that, in order to survive, in order to fight for the revolution, I need to do awful things. I guess it's a testament to my admittedly very fucked-up relationship with Haymitch that he can sort out my head in just a few not-thought-out words that led to a surprisingly important realization.

The only good people are dead.

**A/N GOD DENNA STOP BEING SO MELODRAMATIC. Seriously though, I come from updating Coffee Run, the most lighthearted fic in the world, to ****_this, _****and all I can think is "chill, my dudes". Anyway... Thank you melliemoo for your review, and all the follows/favs I've been getting recently? Y'all are wonderful, really.**


	31. Chapter 31

"Left foot first. No, your _other_ left. How can you get it wrong twice? You only have two legs!"

"I'm a fighter Odair, not a dancer," I retort. We're in my dining room, the table shoved to one side as he tries to teach me a traditional dance from District 4. Suffice to say, it's not going well. He's limping quite a bit, since I've managed to step on his toes a few times. Most of those times it was an accident.

"Right. Arm up, walk forward, engage, spin- not that fast!" he yells, as I whirl him round. I let go and he loses balance, stumbling and flying forward into the wall.

"Whoops," I say brightly.

He scowls at me, but I know it's in good humour. Annie's perched on the edge of the table and she's laughing, clapping her hands together. We're doing this for her- to distract her from why she's really here. It's not like I want to learn how to move in these ridiculous patterns. Still, it's a nice distraction from what's going on outside this room.

Just as that thought crosses my mind, the door flies open and Haymitch walks in, leaning into the room with his hands on either side of the doorframe to brace himself.

"Need to talk to you," he says urgently.

"Hello Haymitch, how are you today? I'm fine, thanks for asking," mutters Finnick drily, and Annie giggles.

"Sorry for not acknowledging your presence, Odair," Haymitch shoots back. "I was too blinded by your beauty that I couldn't even acknowledge you." I roll my eyes. "Hi, Annie."

"Hello."

"Do you mind if I steal Denna?"

"Um," she glances at Finnick, who nods. "Of course not."

"What is it?" I ask him. He looks- not distracted exactly, but as if there's something big that's stopping him from focusing completely on the here and now.

He shakes his head a fraction of an inch- he doesn't want to say it in front of Annie. Must be something to do with the Games, then. "Back in a minute," I say to the two from 4, and follow him into my study.

"You saw the opening ceremony?" he asks, shutting the door behind me.

"Who didn't?" I say. "Cinna and Portia were amazing." I knew the stylists beforehand, from midnight meetings at Heavensbee's manor. I had convinced Crane to assign them to Twelve- I knew they were talented, I knew they would want to support an outlying district, and I knew Haymitch would need all the help he can get. "They were holding hands. Your idea?"

He shakes his head. "Cinna's. Stroke of genius, but in retrospect I'm not sure if it was a good or bad one."

"Why?"

"He loves her."

I gawp at him.

"That was my reaction too. Has done for years, apparently." He fumbles distractedly with the necklace I'm wearing. "'S expensive."

"Seneca Crane got it for me. He's besotted. But… _shit_, Haymitch."

"Yeah. Still, at least this makes it easier to choose which one stays alive. He'd die for her, I reckon. She doesn't care for him, at least from what I can tell. She's ready to kill. Quite good at it, too. Been hunting with a bow and arrows for-"

"Use their names," I cut across him.

"Fine," he snaps, dropping the necklace, "_Peeta _loves _Katniss_. Happy now?"

"Very. And don't get snarky with me, Twelve. What are you going to do about this?"

"He - _Peeta_ wants to be coached separately until the interviews. I guess he doesn't want Katniss noticing."

"Convince him to bring it up in the interview," I interrupt again. "The Capitol will go mad over a love story. Food, love, sex, the Games and aesthetic. That's all they care about."

"It makes him vulnerable," Haymitch points out. "Gives him a weakness. Although…" his eyes glaze over a little as he thinks about it. "His weakness is her strength…"

"She'll be lovable. They love a romance almost as much as they do a tragedy." I try not to think about how I'm playing with these kids' lives as the Capitol does, how I'm sentencing the baker's boy to death. "You can only save one, right?"

He stares at me appraisingly, and folds his arms. He looks more like the man I first met than he has done in years, and my heartbeat picks up a little. _Stop it_, I chastise myself.

"What?" I ask defensively. I swear, the temperature in my apartment's just risen, because I feel quite hot under his gaze.

He shrugs one shoulder. He's not smiling, but his eyes give him away. "Smart idea, One."

"I've been known to have them." I say, a little smugly. "Actually, I haven't, but there's a first time for everything."

He grins, and I saunter past him to the door. I pause as I enter the corridor, because I can see Finnick and Annie in the dining room. They're dancing silently, her head resting on his shoulder and his arm round her waist, both with their eyes closed.

Haymitch stands next to me, puts an arm round my waist and hooks his thumb over the belt of my dress. "Leave them be," he says, in a faintly pitying voice.

I think of Finnick, falling for a poor mad girl from his district when he could have had his pick from anyone in the Capitol. Peeta Mellark, going into the Arena with a stony-faced Seam kid he loves enough to die for. Me, only ever able to find solace in the arms of a drunkard who hates me a little less than everyone else. All of us thrown together by the Hunger Games, finding love in the face of death.

"Love is weird," I remark.

"Tell me about it." He stifles a yawn - he can't sleep during the day because of his tributes, and he can't at night because of his nightmares.

"What are they like?" I ask him, running my fingers along the shadowy line of his jaw. I see him so rarely that whenever he is around I find myself touching him in some way without even realizing. It's as though my subconscious is trying to make up for lost time. "Katniss and Peeta, I mean."

"The boy's a good kid. His mother beats him, from what I heard, but his father's all right, and that's who he takes after. The girl's smart, but she's angry at the Capitol and not a nice person to begin with." He looks annoyed even as he's talking about her. "She's quick to bite and doesn't trust easily, which is going to make getting people to like her of her own accord difficult."

I smile.

"What?" he asks.

"She sounds like you," I say, and he scowls. I rest my head on his shoulder, my hand now lying on his neck, and smile innocently at him until his expression softens. "How long until you need to be back?"

He checks his watch. "Nothing. I should have been gone five minutes ago."

"Go, then. And Haymitch -"

"What?"

"Don't get too sober, will you? Try and stay in character."

He salutes mockingly on his way out, and I'm too busy grinning to myself that I don't notice Finnick sticking his head around the lounge door.

"You're in lo-o-ove," he sings, and I glare at him.

"I'm too old for that," I reply, thankful for the heavy white powder on my cheeks that hides the flush spreading across them.

"Yeah, but you have the brain of a twelve-year-old." He dodges a punch I send his way.

"You don't get to talk to me about love when you're standing there mooning over your pretty girlfriend," I retort as Annie appears next to him, wrapping her arms around his torso. "Ugh. Stop it before I vomit."

"Hypocrite."

"Don't be mean," Annie tells him, biting back the smile that laces her lips.

"Yeah, Finnick," I say. "Don't be mean."

"I was speaking to both of you," she replies, and I take a step back as my hand flies to my chest in shock.

"How dare you, Annie Cresta?" I ask in over-exaggerated appal. "How _dare _you? In my own _home_, woman. No, don't argue with me- I'm done with the pair of you." I start flouncing away.

"Denna," Finnick calls after me, "you can't storm out of your own apartment."

"Shut up!"

**A/N Annie Cresta is precious and wonderful. How are you enjoying the chapters set during the actual book timeline so far? Writing them's a lot harder since I have actual events I have to adhere to, but it's also SO MUCH FUN. Anyway: thank you so very much to Padfootsbane, melliemoo, elliecrawford1605 and wickedgrl123 for your reviews! If you think I go back and reread them all the time, you're absolutely right. If you think that's pretty sad, you're probably right too.**


	32. Chapter 32

"_Sixty! Fifty nine, fifty eight, fifty seven, fifty six…" _the Gamemaker's voice is distorted and familiar in its anonymity. Every single person in Panem right now is glued to their screens. I'm in the Games Centre, a vast, coliseum-like forum open to the sky with smaller buildings encircling it and sheltered from wind by the towering Training, Remake and Broadcast Centres, where Capitolites can trade privately with mentors. Down its centre is the avenue the tribute parade culminates in, but the stands that normally line it have now been sunk into the ground and replaced with open pavilions, seating areas and transaction stands where sponsors are negotiated and obtained. It all faces north, to the massive façade where the President usually stands, that is now empty save for a massive holographic screen that has been projected onto it.

On this screen twenty four tributes are poised, tense and twitchy, in a circle around the Cornucopia. The Arena's a forest, by the look of it- at least, forest to one side and high-grassed meadow to the other. In the wooded direction, the ground seems to slope slowly downwards. I spot Katniss and Peeta immediately - quite a distance from each other, the girl looking much more prepared than the boy. Haymitch told them both to run from the Cornucopia as soon as the cannon fires, because he doesn't think either of them are ready for combat. I hope he's wrong, because Katniss is eyeing up the loot in the mouth of the Cornucopia with an expression I don't quite trust.

"_Thirty! Twenty nine, twenty eight…_"

"He's looking for her!" coos the woman next to me, as the screen switches to a close up of Peeta scanning the tributes for his female counterpart.

"Of course he is!" I tell her. I glance up at the screen and sigh dramatically. "I'd do _anything_ to be loved like that."

"Oh, my darling!" the woman's hand flies to her lavender-stained mouth in sympathy, and a vice-like hand clutches at my arm, the diamond-tipped nails almost drawing blood.

"I'm sorry –" I press a hand to my mouth and look away. "It's just – knowing that he wants to die for her – and she might not even win after that, because she's just a poor girl from Twelve…" I blink furiously and go to dab at the imaginary tears that are welling in the corners of my eyes.

A few more people have clustered around us, torn away from the Games for a moment. Partially because of my "breakdown", partially because the blouse I am wearing has almost half the buttons undone and I am breathing in and out quite dramatically. "I know what it's like, for your dying wish to let someone else live – and then it doesn't even happen!" And with that, I dissolve into hysterical fake crying as the cannon fires and the battle of the Cornucopia begins.

As the woman pulls me into a hug, I watch over her shoulder as Peeta runs immediately to the Cornucopia. Katniss hesitates a moment, then darts forward and past it, stooping to pick up a rucksack and sheet of plastic as she does. Haymitch is _not _going to be happy about that.

"Pretty, my lovely, _do _sit down." Half a dozen sets of manicured hands escort me to a chair as, sure enough, a knife goes flying at the female tribute's head. "Is there _anything _we can do to help you?"

The speaker now is a violet-skinned man with puffed up lips - purples are all the rage this season, apparently. I make a mental note to update my image accordingly.

I fan myself with my hand. "Honour his last wishes," I say breathily, "sponsor her. Help Peeta Mellark make Katniss Everdeen victor."

The man shifts uncomfortably. "I… ah… it's just… Abernathy, Twelve's mentor… sure you know he's not the easiest person to deal with… and the escort, Effie, she's… somewhat vacant… quite hard to settle anything with either of them…"

_Vacant? _I think. _Bit rich coming from you, old man_. In fact, I'd say Trinket is one of the most driven Capitolites I've ever met. But instead of saying this out loud, I pull a tablet out of my bag. One of two screens allocated to District Twelve for collecting sponsors.

"It'll be our secret," I say to the crowd.

%

The elevator doors slide open and I stride into the penthouse of the Training Centre, where Haymitch is leaning against the wall facing the entrance with his arms folded. I haven't been able to find him in the Games Centre – someone told me it's a rarity to see him there at all.

"Well?" he asks. "What happened?"

I drop the tablet on the sofa and rip my blouse open fully, and he raises an eyebrow. "Oh, Mr Capitol!" I wail, pressing a hand to my forehead, "it's so _sad_, I'm going to _die _if you don't sponsor them and then who are you going to stick it in?" I puff my chest out a bit more for good measure, and Haymitch smirks.

"Would work on me," he comments, walking forward.

"Of course it would. I'm brilliant." I bend over and pick up the tablet, passing it to him while fumbling with my blouse one handed. "Crap," I mutter, "I tore all the buttons off."

He rolls his eyes and scrolls through the payments entered on it, all waiting to be finalised by his virtual fingerprint. Behind me, the elevator pings again and Trinket totters in.

"Good morning Denna," she trills, as I hastily wrap my jacket tightly around my front and dart behind my ally for good measure. "I hope you're not distracting Haymitch from getting us some sponsors."

"Why do you assume I haven't already?" he retorts testily, waving the tablet at her.

"Hah! I should be so lucky," she says to me, in a knowing tone of voice. I smile, not least because her personality endears her to me as much as it irritates Haymitch. I rest my chin over his shoulder, so he can see me grinning out of the corner of his eye. "I forgot their profiles, I'll be out of your hair in a second. People are really clinging to my pearl analogy, you know." She breezes past us, grabs her personal screen of the table, and then leaves again in a cloud of perfume and glitter.

"Pearl analogy?" I ask Haymitch, who's pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. I make another attempt salvage my outfit.

"Don't ask," he mutters. "That woman is not helping with my hangover."

"You poor, tortured soul," I console him, giving up on the shirt and planting a quick kiss on his cheek instead. "Well? Aren't you going to send her something?"

"Not yet. Only when she needs it."

"She needs it now," I say. On the screen, Katniss stumbles along through the forest, severely dehydrated. "She needs water, Haymitch!"

"And she'll find it." He climbs over the top of the sofa, taps the low glass table and an interactive map of the Arena appears on it. "She's here- water's only another mile away or so. If I send her some now it's only a limited amount, she'll go thirsty soon after. But if I don't, she'll figure out she's close, and she'll have an unlimited source from this spring that won't cost us any sponsor money."

It seems obvious when he says it. I sit next to him, watch as he bites his lip absent-mindedly and pushes his hair back from his face. In profile, he still looks like how he did when I first met him, with a strong jawline and features that are all angular, sharp lines. Not Capitol-level handsome, but good looking in a dark, Seam sort of way. He must have been popular back in Twelve, just as I was shunted aside in One. Funny, how the Games turned the tables.

I allow myself a couple seconds of staring before returning my attention to the Games.

"What about Peeta?" I ask.

He chuckles. "Trust me, the boy's looking after himself."

"What?"

In lieu of an answer, he brings up a control panel on the table for the television and rewinds to the point when the death toll cannons have just begun to fire.

The camera follows Cato, the male tribute of District 2, as he picks over the corpses littered around the Cornucopia. Grinning, he ambles towards one with sandy coloured hair.

"Look!" he crows to the other living tributes, who are clustered at the mouth of the great golden horn. "Lover boy!"

He doesn't get a chance to say much else, because suddenly "Lover boy" springs up and holds a small whittling knife to Cato's throat. It's small, but enough in Peeta's position to take one Career down.

But of course, there isn't one Career. The rest of the pack – the usual suspects, save that there are none from District 4, but a boy from 3 with a bloody face who has no clear reason for still being alive - run over and point various weapons at Peeta.

"I don't want to hurt you," pants Peeta, dropping the knife and raising his hands. "Any of you. I want to make a deal."

Cato snorts. "What can you possibly do for us, Twelve?" He is obviously the leader of the Career pack this year. I blink and for a moment instead of him I see Gleam, grinning cockily as he looks down at the bloody tribute he dumped in front of me and the girls as we hid in the bushes. Both of them completely in control, unafraid of murder and desperate to win.

_Run! _I think. _He'll kill you! They always do! RUN! _I fight the urge to yell at the screen out loud, and instead grip Haymitch's wrist. The mentor glances at me, but doesn't say or do anything else to acknowledge the action.

"Katniss," Peeta replies, meeting his gaze without a hint of emotion and dragging me back into the present. "She's the only one who got a higher score than you - she's your biggest threat, right?"

"You got a point to make, lover boy?" The girl from Two sneers, poking him in the back with her knife. The nickname's already beginning to drag, but when Two find something they like they stick with it in their own single-minded sort of manner.

"I can find her for you," says Peeta, not looking away from Cato. His skill at talking was not just in the interviews with Caesar - right now, it's what is keeping him alive. "I'm the only one who can. After she's dead, do what you want with me - if you can. But until then, you need me alive if you want her to die."

You can practically see the gears turning in Cato's head as he considers this. It cannot be the first time today a tribute has made him an offer in exchange for their life, because the Three boy is still there. In training, we were always taught to avoid making allies with non-Career districts, because you can never trust them. To take Peeta into their ranks would be too risky for most, and I can see from their expressions that that is what the other tributes think.

But slowly, slowly, Cato extends a hand. "Welcome to the Career pack," he smiles, and Peeta shakes it. He must _really_ want Katniss dead. "Come on, we'll get you a weapon."

But as the Careers brush past him, Peeta turns and looks towards the forest with raw emotion and longing in his expression. "Stay safe, Katniss," he murmurs. "I can't keep them away from you for long."

Haymitch freezes it and I stare open-mouthed at him. Gently, he puts a finger under my chin and pushes my lips closed again.

"Something might fly into it," he tells me, but I'm too caught up in what I just saw to care.

"Did - did you _see _that?"

"Yeah. A few times now, actually."

I point at the screen. "That's _brilliant_! That's properly romantic, like something out of a story. Wow. People are going to _adore _him for that."

"Yep. He's probably more popular than the girl at the moment, which might become a problem later."

I shrug. "They're still both alive, aren't they? We can think about that later."

"_I'll _think about that later," he corrects me. "You keep making sure people want to sponsor them, and I'll decide what to do with the money. And I'll need that tablet back before you get reported."

I nod, then turn back to the screen and grin. "Wow," I say again.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Haymitch smiling crookedly.

"What?" I ask him.

His grin widens. "You."

"Oh, shut up," I say, blushing slightly. His expression falters for a moment - he recovers quickly, but I know him well enough by this point to notice.

"What is it _now_?"

He scratches the back of his neck, not meeting my eyes.

"Haymitch!"

"He's not going to survive this, Denna. You know that, right?"

I release his wrist, look down at my hands and swallow. "Yeah. Yes, of course." The excitement of Peeta's plan for their survival fades, replaced by a familiar hopelessness.

"You can't get attached. This is why I wouldn't let you meet them." He sounds more exasperated than anything, and I hate it, loathe myself - I cannot be a burden upon Haymitch. Not something else for him to carry through this.

"I'll stop watching," I assure him. I watch my fingers twist themselves around each other, skin over metal over skin. "I'll just focus on sponsors, don't worry, I'll just forget about what they're for-"

"Hey." Larger hands wrap around my own, steadying them. Olive skin with scars over the knuckles, hands that I know just as well as my own. "Look at me." Reluctantly I lift my chin, and grey eyes meet green. "Just keep doing what you're doing, okay? You're pretty good at it, One."

I smile weakly. "You're not so bad yourself, Twelve."

He stands up, pulling me with him and gently shoving me in the direction of the elevator. "Trust me," he says, his hands lingering on the small of my back, "you're more valuable than you think."

**A/N I'm basically using this fic as an excuse to write all the stuff that Katniss doesn't see, and doing the part where Peeta makes an alliance (heh) with the Careers was super mega fun to do. I am also very much enjoying being in the actual Games, now. Thank you very much to Kate, salvatoresister887, Good Omens, elliecrawford1605, Padfootsbane and melliemoo for your reviews, and everyone else for follow/faving. You are all magnificent human beings, and I'm glad we're experiencing this trash story together.**


	33. Chapter 33

Ah, the Sweat Room. How I've missed _this_ highlight of my year. The lights, the heat, the scrutiny, the heat, the glamorisation of murder… the heat…

And, of course, my appearance being even more important than normal. Because of Cinna's success in the Games, they've had him design my costume for tonight. I owe him a thousand favours for it, because while it's not exactly more conservative than what I usually wear (not even he could get away with covering me up) it's nothing like the garish colours and tight, glossy fabrics that have become my norm. It's been designed to make it look like I've just got out of bed, to introduce me with a level of familiarity to the viewing public. I wear only a gossamer-soft wrap of a perfect virgin white that falls to the apex of my thighs and lifts, daringly, a little higher whenever I bend over. The material is so fine it slips beneath its belt, revealing flashes of my torso that the cameras clamour to reach, and my hair and make-up echo this deliberately careless look.

"Careless". Ha! It took hours to get me to look this good. Every clear-varnished nail, every errant lock of hair, was sculpted and polished and adjusted to perfection. But still… it makes me feel less like a piece of jewellery and more like a person, and for that I am grateful.

Johanna's sat to my left, her spiky boots propped up on the gambling table and her entire look designed to make her seem intimidating rather than attractive. If they were to ask me, I'd say it does both pretty well.

"You can't beat Two for cunning, this year," she says matter-of-factly, casting a fraction of her own Victor's winnings into the pot. Cato and Clove's faces glow golden for a moment on the interface before falling into a uniform line with the rest.

"You really think?" Caesar asks, as his partner-in-crime Claudius keeps his eyes fixed on the feed of the Games. "I'd say little Miss Everdeen could give them a run for their money."

"You always did like an underdog," a junior Gamemaker who has been given leave by Seneca to provide insight into the Games comments, and the host chuckles.

"Well, she's a wily one."

"So's the redhead from Five," I say, kicking my legs up in the air and enjoying the silky-smooth feeling of rubbing them together.

"Well," Johanna counters, "_you _always did like redheads." That's a blatant lie – the only two people I've ever actually felt an attraction towards have both been dark, as she _well _knows, but I laugh for the sake of the joke. In the Capitol, lying, just like anything else, is fine so long as it produces some pleasure. "Besides, the Twelve girl's currently counting on a kid who's barely old enough to enter for survival. I wouldn't say that's giving Two a run for their money."

Katniss and Rue, Rue and Katniss, their little alliance so reminiscent of Cossie and Willow that I feel the grief returning just thinking about it. I haven't been able to pay much attention to what's happening in the arena itself ever since they found each other, instead just doing as Haymitch tells me and trying not to get too attached as I sell District 12 for all it's worth.

"She's through the worst of the tracker jacker venom already," I interrupt, "barely anyone survives that. And Twelve's always been a district for plans, and besides – she and the main pack have had their eyes on each other since the beginning."

"Not betting on your own horses, Denna?" Caesar asks with a twinkle in his eye.

"I'm a sucker for true love," I smile, "you know what? I think I'll throw caution to the winds." I bet no small amount on one of the Twelve kids to win, and Johanna raises an eyebrow at me.

"Well, Denna," Claudius speaks out at last. "I think the odds have tilted in your favour today, at least. Katniss seems to be waking up."

"Ha!" I say triumphantly. "Just wait and see. They'll be coming up with a plan to take down One and Two within the day."

"Even with Three's booby trap?" the Gamemaker asks me. Before this she's avoided speaking to me directly, due to my figurative and often literal entanglement with her boss.

"She won't directly try to kill someone," Johanna decides, "not yet, anyway. She'll be trying to keep her conscience clear, especially with her cute little sister watching. No, she'll go straight for the Cornucopia itself. She must be pretty damn tired of starving while other people gorge themselves."

I'm pretty sure the main feed cut away from Johanna instead of broadcasting that comment. It sounded a little too revolutionary, to my ears, to be able to make it through censorship.

"And you'll put money on that, will you, Miss Mason?"

"Sure," Johanna smirks, "why not?"

_11F/12F ASSAULT ON CORNUCOPIA _flashes across the screen as she drops in more money. _ODDS: 28/1_

Haymitch gave me one single instruction before coming to the Sweat Room – abandon all pretence of not caring about the outlying districts (which I had been doing to save my neck after my abnormal behaviour in the 60th Games) to back Twelve as much as I could. He said that the support of someone as popular as myself could not only sway the people of the Capitol, but also other districts such as 11, the ones who sympathised with me when my teenage self had refused to work against them, to rally behind Katniss once their own tributes had fallen. And now, it seems like Johanna has that message too. She's not doing it quite so overtly as me and my conviction that they will win, but instead, by betting money on their actions themselves, she draws attention onto 12 and away from the other districts without seeming like all the Victors are clubbing together to achieve a single cause.

I can't imagine Snow liking that.

These Games are being played, very cleverly and subtly – I can see it in the Gamemakers' faces, and they don't like it at all, how much this little mockingjay is beyond their control. They're so used to Haymitch being the catatonic drunkard that they've forgotten he's already outsmarted them before, even just as a teenager. Now he's lived in this machine for years, and he knows it inside out. And I reckon that he's leaps and bounds cleverer than the rest of them, even Plutarch. I'm just glad he's on our side.

I bring myself to look at the image of an exhausted-looking Katniss on the screen, caked in the green goop that Rue made to soothe her stings. I can remember what it feels like – that belief, as soon as you're in there, that there is no world outside of the arena. It was even worse for me, with no family or desirable life that I could anchor myself to. You're trapped in a perfect bubble where the Gamemakers have omnipotence and omniscience, and your first and last thought is of survival, of winning, of escaping to a world you cannot quite remember.

There was once a Games, before my lifetime, that dragged on for almost a season. The Victor went feral – not cannibalistic feral like that other one, but simply inhuman, tearing apart dead animals with his teeth and using his sharpened, overgrown nails as weapons and so on. When they took him out, he talked only in grunts and, it is rumoured, had to be forced into wearing clothes. He died pretty soon after returning to his own District, if I remember correctly. The official statement is that he "failed to reacclimatise to a domesticated environment", but whatever that meant I don't think it could have been fatal. I think that the President killed him, as soon as his novelty wore off. We all inhabit a character, but they're only as valuable as long as the Capitol can exploit it; someone without a human element cannot be interviewed, or emulated, or sympathised with. He was of no use to them anymore.

So while a tribute should absolutely focus on just surviving the next day or hour or minute or whatever in that arena, they should also remember to be wary that there is an audience waiting for them when they emerge. If I could turn back time and shower fully clothed in my own Games I would do it in a heartbeat, so I would either fade into obscurity or be slaughtered for Snow for my insubordination as soon as the Capitol lost interest in me, since I would have no allure to them anymore. Better that than this. I am terrified to think of what will happen to Katniss if she survives this.

A sharp jab from Johanna right between my ribs drags me back into the Sweat Room.

I giggle, because even if that reaction doesn't suit the mood then it suits my persona, the girl who can't quite keep up with the conversation so laughs to hide her confusion. Actually, I think that might be more me than my outward character, but it does the job and nobody makes comment about my vacant look. Suddenly, I'm itching to get back to the Games Centre and see Haymitch, to have him tell me exactly what's going to happen next.

But I know what happens next. We finish this show, I change my outfit, and for the billionth time I go to see Seneca Crane.

**A/N thank you times a hundred to myharlequinromance321, elliecrawford1605, wickedclownsmile, Padfootsbane, melliemoo and Guest for your wonderful reviews x**


	34. Chapter 34

Seneca Crane's bed is impractically large, a Capitol fashion that has always annoyed me. Circular too, which is just awkward. You never know which way to lie down on it. Currently, the way I am using is "on top of Seneca Crane".

That's about it, though. Nothing sexual, at the moment at least. Because Crane is too busy pouring out every worry, stress and concern he has over these Games- which is a lot. I think the man hires me just for someone to talk to, which makes me feel almost sorry for him. Almost. Then I remember who he is, and all sympathy vanishes.

"And ever since the girl died – Rue, that is – the President's been on my back because there's been unrest in the districts because Katniss covered her in flowers and Eleven's practically in uprising and Snow keeps on going on about hope or whatever and how we can't fight them because that'll mean we end up with a full-scale rebellion and Abernathy called this morning-"

"Slow down," I order him, "and breathe." I press my lips to his sternum and feel him shiver. I stay silent for a couple of seconds. "Tell me what Abernathy said." My tongue darts across his skin as I talk.

"Nothing, it - he said, if we can't fight them, give them something to root for." Slowly, I kiss my way downwards, and his hand buried in my hair balls into a fist as his breathing quickens. "But what's that supposed to be?"

I consider this. Haymitch would have guessed I was going to be with Crane throughout most of the Games. I'm also convinced he knows what the districts are supposed to "root for", but hasn't told the Head Gamemaker for a reason- like when he refused to send Katniss sponsors. I might not be smart, but I understand how he thinks- this thing, it must be something Haymitch cannot convince him to do. But me, in his bed with my lips all over his body?

I hook a finger under his chin and pull him upwards as I lean back, so we are both sat upright on the bed. He's slick with sweat, and putty in my hands right now.

"Young love," I whisper in his ear, and he swallows.

%

As soon as Templesmith announces the rule change, I fly down the stairs and sprint to the Training Centre, gaining a few disapproving kooks from passers-by. I almost collide with Trinket in the lobby- we exchange a few words about the news, but thankfully she walks away pretty quickly, no doubt to canvass for more sponsors. I run to the elevator, slam into the doors and jump up and down impatiently as the glass cube flies upwards. The doors open and I'm only three steps out when Haymitch appears, grinning.

I cannonball into him and he laughs, wrapping his arms around me.

"That's what you wanted me to do, right?" I ask him breathlessly. "With Crane?"

"'Course it was," he replies, brushing a shaft of hair back from my face. "Knew you could do it."

I think I'm in love with the way he's looking at me.

"Both of them, Haymitch!" I exclaim. "We can bring them both home!"

The light in his eyes… I don't ever remember seeing anything like it. "I know," he says, "thanks."

I blush. "Your idea," I remind him. "Smartass."

"Admittedly, it was a pretty good idea," he accedes.

"I think we work pretty well together, Twelve."

"I guess you could say that."

He kisses me for the first time since the Games properly began, and for the first time in my life I don't hate myself for winning my own. And I don't think he does either, judging from the way he holds me - like this is the last time he ever will, desperate and longing. I end up pinned between him and a wall, the kisses almost feverish and _oh, _it's wonderful.

It takes him lifting me up by my legs to remind me who I am.

"What's wrong?" he asks, as I hiss in pain.

"Nothing. Don't worry, it wasn't you."

He sets me back down on the ground, gently, as though I might break. "Tell me, Lazuli."

Biting my lip, I pull off my heavy bracelets to reveal mottled bruising around my wrist. Then I lift my skirt, show him the two-day-old blue fingerprints on my thighs to match, where his hands had been a moment ago. Haymitch stares at them.

"You told me it was getting better," he says dully. "You said it didn't hurt anymore."

I shrug. "Some people like it when I fight back." I say it offhandedly – it's not that big a deal, is it?

He takes a step back from me, hides his face in his hands. "Oh, Denna. I'm so sorry." Of course, Haymitch lives in Twelve, isolated from the rest of the world. He's never had a chance to become used to the awful things that I have, the same way I haven't with mentoring. I curse the fact that he's closer to sober right now, because at least drunk, asshole Haymitch doesn't break like this.

"You look like you need a drink," I tell him. When he doesn't respond, I walk away and pour him one anyway. When I come back, he's sat on the floor and staring at his hands.

"I hurt you," he blurts out, and I kneel down next to him.

"No," I say forcefully, "no you didn't. And it wasn't Crane, either. Some guy in the government. Haymitch, it's not your fault." He bites his fist and looks away from me- even when I've seen him watch tributes die, he's never been like this. Sobriety must really be taking its toll. "Abernathy. I love you and your faults very much, but this is one of only two times I endorse your drinking habit," I inform him, taking his fingers and wrapping them round the glass. "The other's when you're screaming after having ripped a room apart looking for booze." He stares at the liquid like he's contemplating drowning in it. "Please, Haymitch. Don't lose it now, Katniss and Peeta still need you. _I _still need you. Besides," I add, "if anybody should be feeling sorry for themselves right now, it's me."

He glances at me, and I smile at him. I pull my sleeve down- over the bruises- and rest my forehead against his temple. Slowly, he downs the liquor.

"There's the man I know and love," I say. "Now don't you have tributes to be mentoring?"

"Mmm."

I kiss his cheek. "Try to pull yourself together by the time Trinket gets back, okay?"

"She's the last thing I need," he mutters, and I pull him to his feet.

"Too bad, sunshine." He raises an eyebrow at me.

"You're starting to sound like me," he says. "Beginning of a slippery slope, Lazuli."

"Yeah, yeah. Next thing I know I'll be drinking liquor like I do coffee."

"Don't even think about it," he says immediately. "Sure you can't stay?"

"Haymitch," I remind him, "you have tributes to save. Plural."

It feels amazing to say that.

**A/N okay so I said this fic is canon-compliant and I'm going by book canon, but that scene in the film that I've essentially nicked and given to Denna instead of Haymitch (or the last line of it, least) because yolo is ****_so good _****and I love it and I had to get it in here. Thank you very kindly much to elliecrawford1605, melliemoo, Padfootsbane and mathgirl92 for your reviews!**


	35. Chapter 35

Chaff, Seeder, Johanna, Mags, Finnick, Annie and me- we are all squished together on the sofa of level 11 in the Training Centre, watching the finale of the 74th Games. Nobody wanted Annie to be there, but it wasn't like there was anywhere else she could stay, not like there was anyone else she could be with. So she sits on Finnick's lap with her face buried in his shoulder, humming to block out the noise. Johanna looks a little annoyed at this display, but even she's not asked her to stop.

I sit gripping Seeder's hand so tightly I'm surprised that these talon-like false nails are not drawing blood. These Games... final showdowns are always hard for me to watch, but this one would be unbearable were it not for how invested I am in its two young heroes. We victors are, as usual, silent for the most part, unmoving as we see the horrors they endure. Nobody bats an eyelid as we watch Cato get torn apart, and I am not surprised. But as the sun rises in the Arena and Templesmith announces that there can still only be one winner, the room is filled with outcry.

"They can't do that, can they?" Finnick asks, one hand curling protectively around Annie's waist like they're going to take her as well.

"They can do whatever they want," Seeder replies, a trace of bitterness in her normally calm voice. Next to her, Chaff sucks the dregs from his liquor bottle.

Haymitch - how is he reacting to this? Angrily, most likely. He will be in a hovercraft above the Arena right now, waiting for one of them to slaughter the other and utterly, horrifically powerless to do anything, his ingenious attempts to manipulate Seneca and the Games in ashes. And he will be alone, too - I doubt they will allow the escort to go with him, and I don't suppose she would be the best company for him at the moment anyway. "Has anyone seen Effie?" I ask, and get only shrugs in response.

The woman's ears must have been burning, because the elevator doors slide open and everyone turns from the screen to see Trinket standing awkwardly in the hallway.

"I'm sorry." She wrings her hands, which, like her cheeks, are red with worry behind her pale cosmetics. "I just - I couldn't watch it alone."

Suddenly I see her for what she is - a woman a couple years younger than myself, who could have frittered her life away in the Capitol, but instead decided to help kids survive the Games. And most escorts wouldn't even bother with a district like 12, but here she is.

I pat the empty space next to me, and she totters forward gratefully. Johanna raises her eyebrows, but nobody else says anything and everyone's attention returns to the screen.

Katniss' fingers fumble with the pouch on her belt, freeing it. Peeta sees it and his hand clamps on her wrist.

"No, I won't let you," he says, almost reflexively.

"Trust me," Katniss whispers. He holds her gaze for a long moment, then lets her go. She loosens the top of the pouch and pours some of the nightlock they had found earlier into his palm, then fills her own. "On the count of three?"

Peeta leans down and kisses her, very gently - I can almost hear the Capitol sighing, an involuntary response since I have spent so long being concerned with nothing but their reactions to tributes and myself. "The count of three," he says.

They stand, their backs pressed together, their empty hands locked tight.

"They must really love each other," I murmur, and Johanna snorts.

"Sure," she says. "That's _totally _why she's doing it."

What? What does she mean by that? I open my mouth to argue - and then I remember how utterly unimportant my worries are at this moment, and return my attention to Katniss and Peeta.

"One," they say together, "two… three!"

The berries barely touch their lips as Templesmith's voice echoes out around the Arena, around _Panem, _around the whole forsaken world. "Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katnisss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you - the tributes of District Twelve!"

Relief is the first thing I feel - my heart starting again, my fists unclenching. Although the other victors in the room are from different districts, by this point they were all rooting for Twelve to win- as was most of the country, I think. The second thing I feel is Seeder's arms wrap around me.

"Well done," she whispers, and I cock my head to one side.

"Why?"

"You helped this happen, sweetheart. Don't forget that."

"I guess," I mumble, but before I can say anything else Chaff shoves a glass in my face.

"Celebratory alcohol!"

I take it and down half the drink in one, and he raises an eyebrow at me. "You're a bad influence on me," I explain, and he sniggers.

"Glad to hear it."

Behind him, Finnick is coaxing Annie back into the real world.

"It's okay Annie, it's over. I'm here, don't worry."

She looks at him through curtains of hair. "Who won?" she asks softly.

"Both of them," he tells her, and she smiles.

%

I wait for him on the roof of the Training Centre, just as he did for me after my own Games. As always, I don't hear him coming until he's stood a couple of feet behind me and coughs loudly. The only person who could ever sneak up on me.

I spin round, lean back on the balcony railing. It's the evening after the initial live interviews with Caesar; his suit is crumpled, I guess he must have slept in it. He raises a half empty bottle of liquor at me in greeting.

"Well done," I say, wind buffeting around the garden, "how does it feel to have mentored two tributes to victory in the same year?"

He stares at me, expression far more serious than what I was expecting. "Denna, you - never mind." He upends the bottle and I narrow my eyes.

"What's happened?"

He glances round and walks towards me, leaning next to me against the railing. "When she held out the berries," he says slowly, carefully, "why do you think she did it?"

"For love," I say without hesitating - then Johanna's comment rises in my memory. Now that I have time to think about it I allow my mind to work out why it had upset me, and realize that it is because, like so much of Johanna, it didn't fit with the perfect picture that had been created, a picture I often fail to see beyond without the help of those closest to me. "Or… defiance."

"It smacked of rebellion," he explains, voice low. "Maybe not in the Capitol, but in the districts… it's the spark they needed, for a girl from 12 to break the one victor rule."

Now that I'm properly thinking about it, now that the floodgates have been opened, I remember every little thing that whispered of something bigger, more dangerous, than anything that I alone could ever have conceived. _"There's been unrest in the districts… Eleven's practically in uprising… a full-scale rebellion."..."Even now, they are plotting against the Capitol, waiting for a spark to start a revolution."... The panic in Claudius Templesmith's voice… _the pieces all fall together now, and that glossy picture falls away, replaced by something massive and unquantifiable and... hopeful.

"Oh, shit," I breathe, staring at him. "But that… that's good, right?"

"Is it? Now these two kids are the faces of a revolution. Mainly her, but that's just… Look. If you were Snow, what would you do?"

My blood turns cold and sluggish, like sap from a long dead tree. "He can't kill them, Haymitch, surely he wouldn't -"

"You'd be surprised at what he can do," Haymitch says with a dark look, the kind you can only find on the face of a victor.

I think of the rumours I have collected over the years from pillow talk, of sabotage and poison and the sores in the President's mouth. That afternoon years ago, when he invited me to his mansion. Oh, I was scared then. Not of dying, but of _him. _"I don't think I would be, actually."

Haymitch takes that in his stride and continues talking, leaving it to me to keep up. "You heard from Seneca Crane recently? Since the finale, to be precise?"

"No."

"Neither has anyone else."

"No," I say, "he's just - he's just busy! There's a lot to do for him, of course there is. It's horrible to say something like that! Snow's awful, but there's no way he'd assassinate someone with such a high profile." I refuse to believe it- Seneca Crane, assassinated? He was harmless- as much a Gamemaker could be, anyway.

"You think? Head Gamemaker's never been the most stable job in the world, and besides, accidents happen." His tone is almost mocking. Haymitch has never been one for undue sympathy, of course, but this time it really gets to me.

"Don't!" I snap at him, repelled by how, how _cruel _he is being about this. I can't even look at him. I think of Seneca Crane, hiring me for company because there was nobody else he could trust. Who called the tributes by their first names. Who never left a mark on my body, and would have someone drive me home. There are malicious people in the Capitol and there are ignorant ones; he was one of the latter. I realize I'm sorry he's dead, and I'm disgusted at myself for it. _He organised the deaths of children_, I remind myself, _and he did it for entertainment. Haymitch may not be kind, but he_ is _right. Seneca was not a good man, and he knew what he was doing. _But still, he was a person... a man who found himself out of his depth in shark-infested waters. And he did _not _deserve this.

"Denna. _Denna_."

"Hm? Oh, sorry." I wrap my arms around myself, swimming in guilt and a cocktail of other muddled emotions. I try to get my head above them by thinking rationally, like my companion is doing, and reach out for help. "What's going to happen now?" I ask.

Haymitch shrugs, staring moodily into the middle distance. "We try and convince everyone the girl did it for love."

"Did she?"

"I don't even think she knows that. But in the meantime they play the happy couple, and we wait and see what the bastards come up with for next year."

Of course, the 75th Games will be a Quarter Quell. Of which the only living survivor is the man standing next to me, drinking liquor like water. "It's going to be awful for you," I realize, "isn't it?"

"Thanks for reminding me, darling."

My weathered heart breaks for him.

"Haymitch? Haymitch! Haymitch Abernathy, get back in the Training Centre this instant! Your victors need you!" A funnily accented voice calls from the doorway to the roof.

"Duty calls," he murmurs, taking a last swig of the bottle and handing it to me. I recognise the shift in tone, know that talk of rebellion is over.

"I think it was Effie, actually."

"Hilarious."

"See you in six months," I say. "Victory Tour, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"And Haymitch?"

"What?"

"Congratulations." I press my mouth against his, sliding my arms around his neck, and I feel his shoulders relax as he leans into me, with his hands resting against the barrier on either side of my waist. Every awful thing, every terrible threat hanging over us, fades into the background, into whit noise when we kiss. Our entire world exists only of us. We are the closest thing each other has to an escape. And I want to give him that, at least.

I pull myself up to sit on the railing, legs wrapping around him, and his arms move to steady me, on my back and slipping under the hem of my dress. I bite down on his lower lip in a bid to keep quiet, creating new knots and tangles in his hair as I grip onto it and tilt his head backwards, rising up with my arms on his shoulders and kissing him from above. I really don't need all these layers of clothing between us and I go to get rid of them as quickly as possible, scrambling for the feel of skin. I love the way he touches me, hungry and tender and desperate all at once, I wish it could be like this constantly, I wish that my life was nothing but him… then I remember who's waiting, and that wishes never work.

Breaking away takes as much strength as it did for me to survive the last night of my Games. It's about as painful, too. "You'd better go," I say, "before Effie comes out and catches us."

"Caught me doing worse," he mutters, and I roll my eyes as I push him away from me and hop back down off the barrier.

"Go, Twelve."

He steals one last kiss and turns away, stumbling slightly as he walks to the door. As he opens it, he hesitates a moment. "Why?" he asks me, turning back around.

"Why what?"

"Why let my two-a-penny escort watch the finale with you?"

What sort of question is that? "Because it was kind," I say. "Why else?"

He laughs, shaking his head. "G'night, Lazuli."

I wait a few minutes, then follow his path back to the elevator.


	36. Chapter 36

"Oh, I've been looking _everywhere_ for one of these!" Atticus, the official costumier of President Snow's family, exclaims as he dives into the jewelry shop, nearly yanking my arm out of its socket in the process.

"Looking for what?" I ask, rubbing my shoulder with the hand that isn't entrapped in his.

"Mockingjays!" he says, waving his arm around at the countless displays of the little bird symbol.

"Oh," I say, "right. Those."

"Oh, Denna. You are silly, sometimes."

"How am I supposed to keep my head straight around you?" I ask, planting a purple-lipstick kiss on his cheek. He giggles and returns it, and we spend a brief moment getting decidedly inappropriate in the store. I recall how, when we're having sex, Atticus often slips up and cries out the name of Pomponia, instead. The name of his sister. I've been in the Capitol so long I wasn't even surprised the first time he did it, but my brain logged that little nugget of illicit information away for further use. I think Atticus hires me more to divert suspicion than anything, apart from the fact that for some unknown reason he appears to enjoy my company.

Atticus can't keep his mind off fashion for long, though, and drags me around to look at all the different styles. "Of course, the Snow girls are all wearing their hair a lá Everdeen," he informs me, "but it would be nice to have something a little more obvious, don't you think?"

All I can think of is how it's also the symbol of the rebellion, and Plutarch's fancy stealth symbol hidden in his pocket watch. Obviously, I don't tell Atticus that. "Won't it look a little... novelty?" I ask, thinking of how mad Snow would be to see his family covered in the token of the girl he hates. Not that I don't want him to be mad, but I know he has a granddaughter, and wouldn't want any harm to come to someone as young as that. Too much along those lines goes on already.

"Hmm... I suppose so," he says critically, examining a pair of diamond earrings that look like a pair of mockingjay wings. "Dolabella got a tattoo, have you seen it? It looks positively _awful_."

I laugh. "He probably got it done cheap, knowing Dolabella."

"Still, at least it's in a place nobody would want to see, if you catch my meaning. How about arrows?" he asks me, picking up a silver bar in the shape of one that is worn via threading it through two holes in your skin.

"Arrows are cute," I concede, and he buys one for me as well as a quiver's worth for the Snow brood. I'll wear it to the next meeting at Plutarch's manor, I think. Might as well look the part, since I never have anything useful to say that someone else hasn't already told me first.

"I've always thought warm colours washed you out, honey," he tells me as we lounge on a bench in the promenade, "such a shame they're all the rage now, what with the whole 'girl on fire' aesthetic. You're pallette's far more suited to crystalline hues."

"Whatever you say, I trust suits me best," I reply, as his hand creeps up my leg. "How's life in the castle?"

"A little fraught, I must admit. At first I thought it was because we had twice the victors to deal with, but the President is far more involved with the Games than usual. Definitely more than what he was for the last Quell. I can hardly even remember that one, though."

"I thought you were too young to be alive then," I lie, and his stretched and inflated face cracks into a smile.

"Ooh, you are a love. But no, he's taking it very seriously, much more so than is usual. The family barely sees him. But that's not important – did you hear about Midas and Morpheus?"

%

"Snow's elbow deep in the Quell," I tell the people sat around Plutarch's table, spinning the little silver arrow that has been speared through my ear. "Even at home, when he's supposed to be off-duty."

"That's... odd," Plutarch replies with a furrowed brow. "I haven't seen him any more than usual. He must be doing something he wants to fly under the radar, then."

"It's got to be to do with the twist this year, right?" someone asks, "why else wouldn't he want the boss to know about him interfering? He knows it's illegal, even for him."

"It's not that it's illegal," he said, "so much that, if the public found out, he'd be hanged in front of all of Panem and the Mockingjay rebellion wouldn't even have to lift a finger. The Games are even more sacred than he is. But I can't ask questions, in case he suspects... Thank you, Denna."

I nod, feeling very much like a kid being given a gold star by their teacher. Not that I had ever experienced that, obviously. Shit, what ten-year-old me would have done for a gold star in Career training could fill a book...

"Denna!"

"Huh?" I'm jerked out of my reverie, and notice everyone else around me is getting up to leave. "Oh. Sorry."

"I should try and get a holiday to wherever it was you just were," Plutarch jokes, as the Avoxes come forward to collect wine glasses. "Judging by the expression on your face, it looked wonderful."

"I was... reminiscing," I say, standing up.

"What about?"

"Climbing lessons when I was eight," I say with misty eyes, "I was the only person who could get to the top of the rope in less than a minute. Bloody big rope, too. I got beaten up by Sparkle Finch so much for that. She ranked higher than me, but that closed the gap a little."

Plutarch gives me an odd look, and moves the bottle of wine away from me. "Right..."

"And then I fell off the ceiling bars and fractured both shin bones," I continue, lost in the annals of memory, "and fell behind again. No wonder I can't read, I missed all the lessons while they were setting my bones in hospital."

"Right," he says again, "would you like me to get Tullia to drive you back?"

"Oh," I say, "yes, please. Plutarch, what do you think's happening with the Games?"

"I wouldn't want to worry you," he tells me, "leave all that to me, Denna, just keep doing what you're doing."

"… Okay." It's times like this I need Haymitch with me; nobody tries to bullshit him, he's too smart for that. I sometimes think that, despite it originally being the other way round, the resistance find him more useful than me.

"I'll send a message onto you," he says, "it will look less suspicious if you talk to Abernathy at the Victory Ball at the mansion next month. Just make sure he gets it, will you? I don't trust the telephone line."

"Sure," I say, "whatever I can do to help."

"Good girl." He holds out an arm for me to take and we walk out of the dining room. "Things are moving faster than we could have ever hoped. And District 13 is… enthusiastic, to say the least."

I remember the iron-faced woman who occasionally attended our meetings via video link. "I can't imagine their President being excited about _anything_," I admit, and Plutarch laughs.

"Well, I've known her for longer, and better than she'd like me to," he says, "13 won't abandon us now."

It's fascinating, how he talks about future events with so much certainty. I know he planned them all. Perhaps that's why - Seneca Crane does – _did _– the same thing. Not that it worked out very well for him.

"So long as it all works out in the end," I say, "so long as the Games end."

"They will, Denna. It may take a while longer yet, but they will. I give you my word on that."


	37. Chapter 37

"Denna, these are Peeta and Katniss- but of course, I'm sure you know that. And you two, meet Denna Lazuli, victor of the Sixtieth Hunger Games and darling of the Capitol. Denna helped –"

"It's lovely to meet you both." I cut Effie off hastily, before she reveals the part I played in their victory. I think that, from the way she looks at me, the Mockingjay wants nothing to do with me. Of course, I look like a spoilt Career victor, and I doubt she is old enough to remember my Games. Besides, it's easier for us both if she forgets me- just another face in a long line she must have seen tonight. _Don't get attached_.

It's easy to do that here. At the party in Snow's mansion where you're lucky to see a person for more than a minute at a time. Peeta doesn't mention that we've met before. With one hand lying protectively on Katniss' waist, he extends the other to me. "I know you've done a lot for District Twelve over the years," he says as I shake it. "Thank you, on behalf of all of us."

Does _he _know, I wonder? Or has he just figured it out? "You're welcome," I reply. "I hope you enjoy your evening. Oh, and congratulations on the engagement."

Katniss responds only after a small nudge in the ribs from her betrothed. "Thank you," she says flatly, with all the charm of a dead slug. She's so refreshingly blunt that it brings a smile to my face.

"I'm sure you'll make a beautiful bride. I assume Cinna'll design your dress – the man's a genius, isn't he?" I'm doing most of the heavy lifting for this conversation. "I hear you've followed his lead in choosing a talent. I'd love to see some of your designs some day."

"Well, I'm not Cinna," she says, and talking about her stylist seems to soften her a little. To one side, a photographer captures the moment of three Victors bonding. I doubt Snow's censorship team will let it make the news. "But thank you for your interest."

"It's my pleasure."

Katniss huffs a little under her breath, her flinty exterior raised again. I figure that her and Haymitch either get along brilliantly, or are in a constant state of wanting to tear each other's throats out. Peeta grimaces apologetically for her behaviour, and I shake my head and wave one hand so he knows I'm not offended by it. I've had worse.

They are ushered away by their escort, and I melt back into the Capitolite crowd in the ballroom. I need to find Haymitch- not just for personal reasons, but to pass on news of the rebellion. Plutarch is here too, but it will be suspicious behaviour for such a solitary victor to talk to the new Head Gamemaker. Unfortunately for me, there are several people at the party who are uproariously drunk, and it's difficult to tell who they are until you lift their head up from the vomit they've fallen into. _Please don't be catatonic,_ I think to myself, _I can never get through to you then. Also, I don't want to get any sick on this dress._

It's not the hands that slip around my waist that make me jump, but how coarse they are. Nobody from the Capitol has skin that rough. My breath catches in my throat, and I scold myself for letting someone have such an instantaneous effect on me.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly attractive?" A familiar voice slurs in my ear.

"It's been mentioned. How much, Abernathy, have you had to drink?" I ask, removing his hands from my waist and turning round.

"Not enough," he replies, the smell of alcohol on his breath strong enough to make me feel dizzy.

"You look like you need some air."

"I _feel _like I need some of that wine over there."

"Of course you do." I shepherd him out of the ballroom, down now familiar corridors and onto a balcony. Fireworks, brightly coloured and explosive, take the place of stars in the night sky. "Are you sentient enough still to remember this?"

"Remember what?"

I kiss him - on the lips, on the cheekbone, until my mouth rests by his ear.

"The revolution's started," I whisper. "The Capitol rebels are almost ready to escape to 13."

His shoulders sag. "You have a bloody sobering effect on me," he scowls. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

"The Games. When all the victors and tributes are united, when we're strongest against the Capitol. Heavensbee will tell you more when after the reaping. Grope me, so we don't look like we're talking about this."

His hand moves downwards accordingly. "What else do you know?"

"The Games… they're going to be different this year. I mean, beyond that of a Quell. He won't give me details, but there's something."

"I guess this means I can't pass off mentoring duties to the kids this year then, huh?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't want for you to have to come back here ever again."

"Not even a little?"

"Maybe a little," I admit, because I miss him and loneliness hurts like hell. "But that's just selfishness."

"You're allowed to be sometimes," he assures me. "Especially you. I can't even drink anymore now, if I want to remember all this."

"Isn't that a bit out of character?" I ask, and he snorts. "I'm serious. People will wonder why you're not passed out."

"So I have to _pretend_? Thirteen can't come soon enough," he mutters.

I grin. "Come on, Twelve. I'll get you one last drink if you promise to dance with me."

"That's a win-win for me, darling."

"Not with my dancing, it isn't."

I drag him back to the ballroom and into the center of the dancefloor, which has been tiled with sparkling sky-colored bricks dotted with jewels. Aside from its beauty and how well it complements the flower gardens and ponds of the décor, it is a nightmare in these shoes. I'm having to raise myself onto tiptoe so that the heels don't buckle on the uneven floor, and I _know _Haymitch knows how uncomfortable I am, because he's wearing that grin he always has when he's trying not to laugh at me.

He can't have me to himself all evening though. By the time the party of District Twelve leaves, I am fawning over a stylist, and he is propped up between two attendants. Everything has returned to relative normality for the two of us- save, that is, for the Games and revolution hanging over our heads.

**A/N oh gosh, I have fallen ****_so _****far behind in thanking every one of the wonderful lovely people who leave me reviews on this fic. So without further ado, eternal love to melliemoo, Padfootsbane, elliecrawford1605, mathgirl92, CHarmony49, DTaylor201989, calh, christian's bytch, Ms Lilly and StellarLuna for being the bee's knees. My life has been chaos recently (finishing A-levels, starting university, work etc etc) that I've barely been able to update, but getting so much appreciation for this fic means the world to me, and I'm still amazed that it's so popular. Love y'all.**


	38. Chapter 38

I thought that would be the last I see of him until the Quell, but for some reason luck is on my side. Maybe the universe took pity on me for once. Maybe it was just Caesar Flickerman.

Of course, they interviewed all the previous living victors after the 74th Games like they do every year, but due to the convenience of me being in the Capitol I am spoken to the most – it's a given that I am available year round, and tonight is no exception. "I'm such a hopeless romantic," I gush, on the live late-evening show a couple of evenings after the couple from 12 announce their engagement. "Of course, _you _all know that."

There's knowing laughter from the familiar audience. I'm sure the number of people in there who I have slept with is beyond my ability to count.

Caesar's chuckle joins the rest- he is hosting the show, which also has the happy couple's stylists, whom I assume are the District 12 prep teams, Trinket and Heavensbee as guests. Throughout the broadcast, we reveal the Capitol's extensive programming format in the build-up to the wedding; the public referendum on the choosing of her dress, behind-the-scenes documentaries, and interviews with the participants of the wedding themselves and their support teams.

"Cinna, baby," I coo, "please, just give me a hint as to what the next design is like. I'll do _anything._"

He chuckles. "Well, what do you want it to look like?"

The audience whoops and cheers, since they follow my fashion choices avidly and would most likely love it if one of the dresses was inspired by another victor. I rack my brains for a colour that isn't horrifically lurid. "Ivory!" I exclaim, after a pause. "Make it ivory, ivory and gold. What other colours go well with gold?"

"Green," Caesar suggests, and I nod enthusiastically.

"Yes! But green will look rubbish on a wedding dress."

"The décor can be plants and things," one of her prep team says, a pretty and plump girl with green skin herself, and I clap my hands delightedly_._

"Oh, yes!" I exclaim, hoping as ever that I'm not being too over-the-top. I have to remind myself that in the Capitol there's no such thing before I feel safe again. I rush across the stage and kiss the green girl on the forehead, leaving a bright purple heart of lipstick there as I collapse back into my own seat. Our spectators are loving the brief display of affection, and I wink in their direction. Caesar is kind enough to indulge my antics, but he effortlessly steers the conversation back to the realms of relevance.

Once the show closes and the red recording lights dim, the host pulls me to one side.

"Denna, my dear, I have a _teensy_ favor to ask," he says, holding up his thumb and forefinger to illustrate how small it really is.

"Ask away," I say, near-exhausted by my performance and slightly concerned about being cornered like this. To be fair to him though, I trust Caesar more than most in the Capitol, not least because he's never expressed an interest in sleeping with me.

"Now, we need to try and counterbalance all the focus on Katniss, due to all of this hoo-ha over the dress," he says, dragging out his 'S' sounds like all Capitolites do. "And since Peeta's much more… open, shall we say, than she is, we wanted to do a nice, intimate little interview with him in his own home, about how he feels and so on."

I have absolutely no idea where this is going. "Go on."

"And we thought, to really make it so _personal_-" he makes a little hand gesture as he says that- "we could have an equally popular, equally charming person with rather more experience in romantic endeavours on the other side of that interview."

I wait for him to spell it out for me.

"Which is you, Miss Lazuli."

"Oh!" I catch Cinna's eye over his shoulder, who smiles reassuringly. "So I… I'm going to District Twelve?"

"Yes, my dear," he tells me, eyes twinkling. Then he lowers his voice and pulls me away from the rest. "I also thought you might appreciate the opportunity to see their mentor again before the Quell."

"I would," I agree in earnest, "thank you. Caesar, what- what's the general opinion people have about Haymitch and me?"

"Just another client, and nothing at all if you were to ask someone from the Districts," he assures me, patting my cheek. "All gossip, you see, all Capitol gossip. And even with you going to Twelve, I am certain it will stay that way."

That's a relief, I guess. "But you – how did you –" the host always seems to know more than anyone else except maybe Snow, but I wouldn't think he knew this.

"What can I say?" he beams. "I'm a sucker for a happy ending."

I find Cinna afterwards, and he hands me a glass of wine. "You put on a good show," he smiles, and I lift a shoulder.

"So do you." I drop my voice a little. "Do I have you to thank for planting the seed of an idea in Caesar's mind?"

He shakes his head. "He came up with it all by himself," he tells me, "I think he's smarter than he lets on. Which is… kind of scary, actually."

I laugh. "Don't bite the hand that feeds us." _It's not like we're trying to rebel against them, or anything._

I'll be honest; Caesar Flickerman both fascinates me and terrifies me a little. I don't have much to pride myself on, but I can definitely say I know the dirty little secrets of anyone worth knowing about in the Capitol, but with Caesar, for all his character and charm onstage, there's… nothing. It's almost like he's part of the elaborate sets, as though when the show finishes they pack him into a box and put him into storage, because he's sure as anything got no life outside of his on-screen persona.

But the thing is, ever since he got the job of hosting the Games, which he's been doing for as long as I can remember, he's the only person who has talked to every single tribute. Not even the trainers, not even _Snow _does that. And he has to make this conscious effort to present them as people, to get to know them as humans, and then he has to commentate and explain and react, in front of all of Panem, as they tear each other apart. _I _certainly couldn't do that. And yet _he _does, as though it's nothing more than the tamer kind of Capitol scandal. Part of me wants to know how, to crack him open and see what's inside his glittery shell, and part of me wants to give him a very, _very _wide berth.

I don't even know if what he said about happy endings is genuine, or whether it's just another facet of his stage dazzle. Maybe that front is all he is, maybe if I crack him open he's just solid Capitol glitz and spin, all the way through. Maybe he was a person once, and he had to give up his humanity because surely, any real human in his position must be _completely and utterly insane._

But I don't know. And he's given me the opportunity to escape for a while, so I'm really not in a position to be questioning him.

All the same… I almost want him to hire my body, just so I know there's something I can understand behind that tinsel white smile.

**A/N I have my favourites, obviously, but objectively I think Caesar is by far and away the most interesting character in THG. He's genuinely quite scary. Anyway, next chapter is probably one of my favourite chapters, so look forward to that. Thank you melliemoo, Fireclaw27, NikaJ, untouchable301, elliecrawford1605, mathgirl92, awayshegoes and Padfootsbane for your reviews! I think I say this a lot, but I still can't believe so many of you like this.**


	39. Chapter 39

I go with just Effie to District Twelve, in clothes fancier than what I wore here last time but still not full on Capitol, riding one of the near-silent, high-speed trains I have not been on since my Victory Tour. I find it a little difficult to keep up several hours' worth of conversation, especially without dinner or sex to fill the gaps, but fortunately the escort speaks enough for a dozen people. We leave late evening, sleep on the train and arrive at about midday.

"Now," says Trinket, tottering off of the train, "I can't guarantee you will see Katniss around – the girl isn't exactly camera-happy, as I'm sure you've noticed, but…" she trails off as we enter the town square, and her eyes settle on the contraptions that appear to have been recently set up.

Oh. Oh, no.

I see a gallows, a stocks and a whipping station, as well as a high horizontal pole with several pairs of manacles hanging from it. The pair closest to one end are occupied by a skinny woman who has passed out while hanging by her wrists, which are red raw and make my own skin itch just to look at.

"Go ahead, Effie," I say, "I'll catch you up."

"But –"

"I'll be fine, I promise. It won't take a minute."

The square is otherwise empty; I wait until Effie is out of sight before running towards the woman. There are a few bricks stacked around the base of the pole that must have been left over from when they were building it, and I kick one beneath the woman's feet so that she can stand, and not all her weight is being supported by her bloody wrists. It seems like such a feeble gesture, but what else can I do? After some thought, I tear off the bottom of her ragged shirt and wedge the fabric between the shackles and her skin, cushioning them a little.

"I'm sorry," I say, in case she can hear me. "I'm so sorry."

I hear movement behind me and bolt, like a squirrel up a tree, to rejoin Effie just as she reaches the entrance to the Victors' Village. "Everything okay?" I ask her, and she nods before leading me towards the house next to Haymitch's.

Peeta himself opens the door, warmth spilling out; I remember Effie mentioning he lives alone, that his family stayed in the bakery. Recalling what Haymitch said about his mother, I can understand why. "Denna," he says, extending a hand, "right? It's lovely to see you again."

"You too," I smile, and that's all I can get out before Effie ushers us inside. The camera crews arrived a few hours before us, and they have already set up in the pleasantly homely kitchen- there's even a loaf baking in the oven, I notice, and it smells glorious.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asks, and I nod as I drape my jacket over the back of the chair. He pours a cup from the tea set arranged on the table, by a vase of green ferns and orange tiger lilies, and I sit across from him so we're both on either side of a corner. I glance at Cressida, grateful for a familiar face from the meetings at Heavensbee's manor, and she gives me a nod that confirms we are recording.

"Are you excited?" I ask, fixing a grin on my face as I take a sip from my cup of tea.

He nods. "It's all been a bit of a blur," he admits, "but at the end of it we end up together, and that's all that matters. We could get married in rags for all I care, so long as it happens."

"I doubt the Capitol would like that," I say. "Where is the blushing bride-to-be?"

"Making the rounds in town," he says, "she likes to help others." I notice how his eyes sparkle when he talks about her, and doubt that it's acting. Then he leans a little closer. "Between you and me, I think that when she doesn't have to be in front of them, she wants to be as far away from the cameras as possible."

"Stage fright's only natural," I shrug, "you are getting married, after all."

"Yeah," he says, smiling widely, "yeah, we are."

It's at that precise moment that Haymitch staggers into the room in a cloud of alcohol fumes. His unfocused eyes go from the setup at the table to the camera crew, then narrow.

"What's going on?" he asks, lurching towards Peeta's oven and pulling the bread out of it, swearing under his breath as it burns his hand.

"The _interview_, Haymitch," Effie says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. I suppose she's not far off.

"Thought that was on Thursday," Haymitch replies, now pilfering a jar of jam.

"Today_ is_ Thursday," Peeta informs him, a definite note of amusement in his voice.

Haymitch nods. "That'll be why, then." He winks at me and practically falls out of the back door that he came in through, which slams shut behind him.

Effie looks like she's about to explode, but Peeta and I catch each other's eye and both start laughing.

I talk to Peeta for a couple of hours, and find that with him the conversation comes naturally - he makes as much of an effort to engage with me as I do with him, making it easier for both of us. When the interview's finished, it's even him who suggests I go round to see Haymitch - "you're old friends, aren't you?"

"Something like that," I say.

"That might be a good idea, actually," says Effie, which worries me. "Getting their mentor to open up to another about how _he _feels on camera would really -"

"I doubt anyone can get Haymitch Abernathy to open up," Cressida laughs, reining Effie in before she gets into a gallop. "We've got more than enough of what we need, Effie. Haymitch will just make the show look messy."

_Thank you_, I mouth at her, and she gives me a small smile in response.

"Well," says Effie, "our train doesn't have to leave until evening… but I must admit I have no desire to speak to him any more than absolutely necessary."

"That's fine," says Peeta, "you can stay and help me finish off this tea." We both stand up, and he offers his hand to me again.

I ignore it and hug him instead, not just because the cameras are capturing our farewell but also because I genuinely want to. "Congratulations on your engagement, Mr Mellark. I hope you'll be very happy together."

"Me too," he agrees, and the room laughs.

Within just five minutes, most of which is Trinket fussing, I'm walking through Haymitch's back door without bothering to knock. "Honey," I yell in a terrible District Twelve accent, "I'm home."

"Keep your voice down," says Haymitch irritably, emerging from the lounge with his hand over his face. Hungover, of course. But not drunk, not yet. He will have only just woken up when he gatecrashed the interview.

"It's a lot cleaner in here than when I last visited," I observe, looking around. Even the washing up has been done - _today_. Wow.

"That's Hazelle," he tells me, "can't get her to stop. It was the girl's idea."

"It was a good one." Finally, he kisses me - gently, and with less urgency than normal. I wonder if this is what he would always kiss like, if we weren't apart all the time. I think I prefer it. "Nice to see you, too."

"Mmm." He studies me for a moment - checks my wrists for bruises - and wanders away. "You want anything?"

"Some of that bread and jam you stole earlier would be nice," I grin.

"Didn't_ steal _it," he corrects me.

"Oh, don't tell me. You borrowed it, and fully intend to give it back."

"No," he says, "I plan on eating it." He hands me the heel of the bread, laden with strawberry jam, and unscrews a fresh bottle for himself.

I haven't eaten food this simple in a half-life, but it's surprisingly good. Haymitch takes a bite before handing it back to me.

"So," he says through a mouthful, "what did you think of my creation?"

"What, Peeta? He's very sweet," I shrug. "Haymitch…"

"What?"

"I saw all the stuff they put up in the square."

Haymitch scowls, pushing his fingers through his matted hair. "Come see how clean the front room is," he says, dragging me in there. It _is_ clean, save for the clutter created by overflowing bookshelves, and the couch is old and squishy enough for me to sink into almost to the floor - or at least that's how it feels. Haymitch grabs two glasses and pours a measure of liquor into each. I realize he is putting off answering the question.

"If you don't want to talk about it -" I begin, but he shakes his head.

"You deserve to know." He rubs his eyes. "Still, I don't even have a clue where to begin…"

"Does Snow know about the rebellion?" I ask, then kick myself. He notices my expression and his mouth twists.

"Don't worry, I've checked and this room isn't bugged. Yet. He knows about uprisings in some of the districts, but not the Capitol, obviously. He wanted the two of them to try and subdue it, convince everyone that she held out those berries for love and not defiance when she doesn't even know herself… the wedding was a last-ditch attempt to make it work."

"And did it?" I ask. He shakes his head. "So… why aren't they just joining the rebellion?"

"They don't know about it - at least, all of it." He sighs heavily. "Katniss wanted to run away with her family, and I had to talk her out of it, say there was no chance she was escaping. I had to lie through my teeth, Denna. She's going to hate me."

_Haymitch Abernathy opening up_, I think to myself, _if Cressida could see this.._. "They're going to try and get them out, right? During the Quell, while everyone's distracted?"

"To Thirteen," he nods, "all of us. That includes you too, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Tell me about what's going on here."

My hair's been braided down one shoulder in a more needlessly complicated version of the popular style; he pulls it out and unravels it as he talks. "So the uprisings carry on, Katniss is about to run, and then the Hob - the black market here - it burns down, we get a new Head Peacekeeper, and the whippings start picking up for the first time since I was a kid."

"Those marks on your back," I say, "they weren't from your Games, were they?" The lines across his shoulder blades are too faint to be seen. I only know about them from touch. In District One, in Career training, they preferred to use fists or the backs of their hands as opposed to whips and other forms of punishment, since they were more similar to what we might experience in the arena and would be less likely to leave unattractive scarring.

"I was a smartass kid," he says, "got into a lot of trouble."

"Nothing's changed then," I say, and he laughs shortly. "How awful has it been?"

"Bad," he says simply. "And they haven't even announced the Quell, yet. He'll try and break them with that… he'll try and break all of us."

"What do you think it'll be?" I ask him.

"Dunno. I would say they reap our kids, except barely any of us have families. Does Heavensbee have any idea?"

I shake my head. "Technically, no one does, not even Snow. Whether that actually holds true or not, we'll have to wait and see."

"Ever the optimist," he says.

"Well, one of us has to be." My hair is half undone now, and the braid has put odd kinks in it that would give my hair stylist a heart attack. Haymitch wraps one of them round his finger absent-mindedly. "How are they both coping with the wedding, anyway?"

"I wouldn't go as far as to say they were _coping_, but neither's killed the other yet."

"If they could manage that," I point out, "we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place."

"Look at you, talking sense for once."

"I have my moments," I smile. "But thank you for noticing."

"It's what I'm here for." He sets down his empty glass, and we lapse into a comfortable silence with me curled up at his side. When I first met him Haymitch was narrow and lean, but age and alcohol has softened the edges a fair amount. He's heavy and steady, nothing like me, and it's a weird, comfortable tangle we make together on that couch. When I get bored of sitting still I take the opportunity to nose through his living room, now that it's clean enough to do so. The curtains are half-drawn against the bright winter light, presumably because sun doesn't really help with hangovers, so the room is shadowy and lit with warm-tinted lights. It's a cosy sort of warm due to the glowing coals in the fireplace, and although it isn't really my style I like it, in such a short dose as this.

What stands out most to me is the books, most likely because I don't have any in my own apartment- partly because I don't have the time, but mainly because I can barely read. Pre-Panem books are outlawed, but there's a black market for them if you know the right people, and a victor knows _everyone_. I recognise some of the names, although these must be in a different context. Cicero, Horace, Plutarch… there must be more words trapped within those pages than I've ever read in my entire life. More knowledge than I can possibly imagine. I thought I knew every facet of Haymitch, but I never realised that, even aside from being clever, he actually _knows _things. That he wants to learn about a world before Panem, in the same way I look at the ocean.

It makes it easier to love him. Like I really needed _that._

It's so nice and warm here, so simple and quiet, in the amber room surrounded by words I don't understand and the man I shouldn't love holding me in the still, settled air like I'm supposed to be here, like this is where I was born to be. I've been to District Twelve three times in my life, and it feels more like home than anywhere else in the world.

When I tell Haymitch this, he gives me his trademark, patronisingly amused look. "It's not that impressive here."

"I don't want impressive. I even like your _graveyard_, Abernathy. It's just… peaceful. And nice. A nice place to not be important," I say, and realise that sounds quite offensive. "Sorry. I didn't mean –"

"I get it," he says. "You can stay."

I smile. "Forever?"

"If you want."

"Okay," I say, "forever. But I have to get a train in an hour."

I slouch down so that my head is in his lap, and his fingers brush away the last of the braid. With my eyes closed, amber light still filters through my eyelids and makes my view nothing but a warm, soft glow that matches the air settling over me like a blanket, an eternity away from the winter outside. I take Haymitch's other hand and lace our fingers together, then curl my body around it so nobody can see and take it away.

"I love you," I say, very quietly. "Forever."

"Until the train leaves?" he asks me, a smile in his voice.

"And when I come back. You can't escape me," I mumble.

"Never even tried to."

**A/N I don't often write soft kind of things, but when I do they make me very happy indeed. Like this chapter, for instance. I JUST WANT THEM TO BE HAPPY. Thank you ever-so-kindly to quicksilvergold, elliecrawford1605, mathgirl92, ScreamingToTheStars, melliemoo and Mezuri for your reviews! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and treat it as a respite before the inevitable shitstorm that is the Quell. That will ****_not _****be happy fun-times.**


	40. Chapter 40

Today is the day that the nature of the Quell is announced. I have been given a day off, as I usually am for reapings. Someone in the Capitol who helps organise my clients is sympathetic of the victor's plight. I pace from room to room- at least with reapings I always had some idea as to what will happen, but with this the element of uncertainty is agonizing. I try to eat, but throw it up again almost immediately. In fact, I'm so distracted by my own thoughts that I almost miss the reading of the card.

I walk back into the room as a small child hands President Snow a yellowed envelope. "On the seventy-fifth anniversary," he reads, "as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors."

Wait, _what_? That's not exactly clear, is it? The existing pool of victors… then it hits me like a brick wall and I fall to the floor.

My species is endangered; they are culling the survivors. I am sure I personally won't be going in; too many bloodthirsty One Careers, and I am all too happy to let them volunteer. But Finnick- how could they resist reaping Finnick? Johanna's the only surviving female victor of her district, and Eleven only has two. And Twelve- the Mockingjay will be caged again, with either the baker's son or-

I scream. The fucked-up family I have built for myself over the last decade and a half- I could lose them all. And I don't think I could survive that, not again. I can't. I refuse to watch them die.

I get the screaming out of my system, then stagger to my feet and dress. I run on automatic, calling a car to take me to the manor of Plutarch Heavensbee. I barge past the Avoxes at the door, and a tongued servant hurries up to me.

"Madam, Mr Heavensbee isn't in at the moment-"

"I'll wait," I say shortly. And I do, sat unmoving for hours with the anger bubbling up until the sun sets and I hear the door open. He comes into the room I am in and I stand up, storm towards him and pin him against the wall.

"Did you know? _Did you know?!" _I roar in his face.

"Of course not, I had no idea-"

"You lying bastard!"

I punch him, sending his head ricocheting back into the wall. I draw my fist back again but arms wrap around me, pulling me away from him. I struggle, but the three strong Avoxes are just enough to hold back a victor spitting with rage.

Heavensbee puts a hand to his nose, which is crooked and pouring out blood. "Denna-" he spits blood out of his mouth- "I didn't know anything about the Quell, I promise."

"Swear!" I snarl, still writhing in the grip of the Avoxes.

"I swear," looks at me straight, bruises blossoming around his eyes, "on my daughter's grave."

I stop kicking. "Okay." I wonder how his daughter died- in the Capitol, people don't die young, where there is no Games, no illness nor famine. I think of his conviction in rebelling against Snow, and now I think I begin to understand why. "Sorry about your face."

"Your reaction was quite understandable." His shirt sleeve is now stained red, and despite what he said I feel a twinge of guilt.

"You should probably get some ice on that," I advise him, and the Avoxes drop their arms.

"I probably should." He nods to an Avox, and they hurry away accordingly to fetch some from the kitchen. "You understand that the likelihood of you being in the Games is next to nothing? I assume you don't plan on volunteering again."

"I wasn't thinking about me." The Avox returns with a bag of frozen peas- I take it from her, walk forward and hold it to the bridge of Plutarch's nose. My own knuckles are bruised too, but I'll sort that out when I get back. "How is this going to affect the escape plan?"

"We'll work around it. Fortunately, being Head Gamemaker means I am in an excellent position to get Miss Everdeen out of the Arena. She is, after all, the priority."

I nod. Yes, this is my chance for freedom too, but getting anyone other than the Mockingjay out is a bonus. It's a little odd, working so hard to rescue a girl who probably can't even remember me, but she's not just the face of the revolution- she's a kid from Twelve, too. Protecting someone like that is what I do.

"You'll have to go back to One for the reaping," Heavensbee reminds me. "Are you ready for that?"

"I'm hoping the hate's died down a bit after fifteen years," I say. "I'm not expecting lynch mobs, at least."

"Don't underestimate the anger of the districts, Denna." I shift my weight uncomfortably. "You should know that by now."

%

A few months pass unpleasantly quickly, and before I know it I am being ushered onto the hovercraft that will take District 1's escort and myself to the place where I was raised. She makes small talk and I respond as well as I can, but she sees I am distracted and gives up pretty quickly. I try not to think of the last time I was on a hovercraft, or how my friends are getting ready for their own reapings, or how Haymitch is going to be forced to either watch the kids he saved go back into the Arena or face it himself- I find myself driving the heels of my palms into my eyes, focusing only on the popping shapes it makes in the darkness.

"Miss Lazuli? We're home!"

_Home? _I think dully. _You think, if I had a home, it would be this place? No, this is where I was farmed._

I follow her off the aircraft and am guided by Peacekeepers to a registry booth. As I sign in and walk towards the holding pen for female victors, I can see people glaring at me, unafraid of meeting my eye. The attitude is much the same from the women I am standing among- most of them beautiful, many scarred, all dangerous. I don't bother to look around for my father. He's most likely dead anyway.

I space out for the introductions, then the traditional film about the Dark Days and birth of the Hunger Games. The click-clack of the escort's heels across the stage reawaken me, and I watch as she plunges her hand into the orb filled with the names of female victors.

"Denna Lazuli!" she calls out, which doesn't exactly surprise me. I'm sure the Capitol appreciated the irony of a victor who volunteered before her time now being reaped after it. Wearily, and with a heavy sense of déjà vu, I make my way up to the podium. The mayor of One gives me a little nod as I go past.

"Now- does anybody wish to volunteer to take the place of Miss Lazuli?"

And this is what unhinges me; not one single woman steps forward.

It's all I can do not to collapse as the silence stretches out. "Nobody? Really?" the escort asks disbelievingly.

_Please_, I think, _just one person… I know you all hate me, but please…_

Nothing. Not one female volunteers, and the escort reluctantly moves onto the males. I am going back into the Games- just when freedom was within my grasp, I am sentenced to death once again. But this time, I'm not even sure I want it. How did they come up with this, I wonder? The rivalry between District One victors is infamous, far more so than even Two. It's unlikely they would all have agreed with each other to do this- unless a certain President had told them to…

Oh, no. I might have to fight Haymitch.

A name is reaped and a tribute volunteers- Gloss Gray, a handsomely well-built man in his late twenties. _I'm going to have to kill you_, I realize, _before you get to me_. _I'm sorry_. I know him a little and don't have much fondness for him, but he's a victor. A person whose death I am going to have to deal with if I want to survive this. Survive- wait, of course I don't want to survive! I'm Denna Lazuli, for goodness' sake!

But I do. No matter how messed up my life is, I want to keep it. Not that there will be much left afterwards, of course. _Just let Haymitch not be reaped. I can't face him if…_

"Well, shake hands!" The escort's voice is brittle - I think my situation may have upset her. I extend my left hand and get within an inch of Gloss' before a high, proud voice rings out around the stage.

"Wait! I volunteer as tribute!" Gloss' head snaps round to see his younger sister Cashmere barge past the Peacekeepers and run up to the stage.

"What are you doing?" he hisses as the escort flounders.

"Can't let you have all the glory, can I?" she replies, not meeting his eyes.

"I can't kill you!"

"We'll worry about that later. Well, woman?" she demands, turning to the escort. "Aren't you going to ask me who I am?"

"Well, I ah-"

"Cashmere Gray." She shoves me out of the way and seizes her brother's hand. "May the odds be ever in our favour, blah blah blah."

I stare at her in amazement. This spoilt brat, who murdered without batting an eyelid, saved my life at the cost of either her brother's or her own. What is her plan, I wonder?

I am to be brought back to the Capitol immediately, on the same train that carries the new tributes, their mentors and escorts. While the Gray siblings say their goodbyes, I slip ahead and make my way to the open caboose of the train. After half an hour the engines whir into life and the train glides out of the station, by which point my emotions have settled somewhat. I stand up and pad barefooted (I took my impossible shoes off as soon as I sat down) through the train, until I find Cashmere sitting alone in the dining carriage, her pretty face scowling and flushed.

I cough, and she turns to raise an eyebrow at me.

"What do you want?" she asks coolly. I know she is popular as a lover in the Capitol, but not to the degree that Finnick or I are. People still see her as the younger sister of Gloss, and nobody wants him as baggage.

"To say thank you."

"I didn't do it for you." She looks away and goes back to staring out of the window.

"You're going in there to save him," I guess, and I see her reflection in the glass smirk.

"The Capitol will love it. Their favourite family put against each other. But… Gloss won because he was popular. Everyone loved him and the other tributes looked like shit compared to him, even the other Careers. This year, all the tributes are people's favourites. Gloss doesn't stand out anymore. He's going to need my help if he wants to win."

"You'll give your life for him, but you don't think he'll do the same for you?" I walk forward and sit in the chair across from her.

"He won't if he thinks I'm ready to kill him." She purses her lips and blinks a couple times, and my heart twists in sympathy for the girl. For _both _of them. Part of me wants to tell her about the rebellion, how maybe they can stay alive long enough for Heavensbee to rescue them, but apparently we cannot trust Districts 1 &amp; 2\. Instead, I sit there in guilty silence.

"Well?" she asks me, speedily regaining composure. "Anything else you want to ask me? I suggest you make yourself scarce before my brother gets here- he's not in the best of moods."

"Good luck," I tell her as I rise from the chair. "I hope you go out in a blaze of glory."

She grins. We both understand the gallows humour of someone prepared to die, but there's a truth to it too. A swift, heroic death is all she can hope for, and it's better than what I was given.

I spend the rest of the journey hiding in my train room, pacing up and down as I watch the other districts' reapings. It's as bad as I expected; the first round of quiet tears come for when Mags volunteers for Annie. Johanna's makes me laugh though - she stamps up to the stage before her name is reaped, pulls her name out of the otherwise empty bowl herself and speculates, loudly and sarcastically, as to who it could possibly be. Much of this speculation is explicit enough to be censored out by the Capitol broadcasters.

The reapings for Eleven just ready to begin when the escort knocks on my door to say we are about to leave, and that I am welcome to accompany them to the Training Centre as a mentor. I take this small kindness gratefully, but it means I am going to miss the reaping for Twelve.

_Don't think about it_, I remind myself, knowing full well that if I do I will break down completely.

I linger at the back of the District One party and as soon as we reach the Training Centre, break away from them to stand with Beetee, who has been reaped along with a woman called Wiress I only know by acquaintance. Before he can object, I pull him into a hug which knocks his glasses askew.

"I'm sorry Beetee," I mumble, and he pats me awkwardly on the head.

"Don't worry about it." His voice drops to barely a whisper, the movement of his lips hidden by my hair. "Heavensbee's taking each of the trusted districts aside as they come in. He's telling them varying amounts of what he's planned will happen in the Arena. I've figured out how to break the forcefield surrounding it; I was purposefully reaped so that I could execute the operation from inside, without interference from the Capitol."

"I… Okay."

"You would have heard more from him, but since you came in with One-"

"I get it. Thanks for telling me." I break off the hug, which had grown uncomfortably long. "Do you know who got reaped from Twelve?"

He shakes his head, adjusting his glasses. "Sorry."

I run my hand through my hair. "Don't worry about it. I'll find out at some point." _Please not Haymitch, please, he can't leave me now they can't take him they can't-_

He squeezes my shoulder and wanders off with Wiress. Districts are arriving at much more irregular times than usual, and nobody seems to be staying in the lobby for more than a few minutes except for me; the Quell appears to have thrown even normally unflappable victors off kilter. I sit at the same bar where I first saw Haymitch, at the far end so it's unlikely I'll be spotted unless someone is looking for me. The glass of amber liquor I am served has the excellent craftsmanship of District One, the multifaceted detailing catching the dull light and throwing it off in rainbow shards.

The doors open, making me jump. I watch distant figures cross the lobby to the elevator, one of them hanging back and waving the others on without them. Haymitch's expression is unreadable as he walks towards me, and my heart appears to have lodged itself in my throat. _Please not him-_

I meet him in the middle of the room- I've stopped breathing, my entire being is in a state of pending, unable to function again until I have an answer.

"Peeta," he says bluntly.

"Oh," I say shakily, "that's… better." Not good, but better than the alternative. For the second time today, I think my knees are about to give way. _Thank you._

"You don't look over the moon about it," he observes.

"I think my brain stopped working when I forgot to breathe."

"Are you going to fall over?"

"I doubt it." But he grabs my arm to steady me anyway. "I'm glad you're not going- I've decided I don't really want you to die."

"Everyone dies, Denna. It's just a matter of time."

Screw this- I shake my head and wrap my arms around his neck, welcoming the familiarity. He rests his chin on top of my head, his fingers brushing the bare skin between my shirt and skirt. I hear a small, wounded noise and realise it is me, crying into his chest.

"And while we're on the subject," he adds, "_you _have to stop nearly dying, or I'll kick it from the stress."

I think back to my being reaped. "This time wasn't even my fault," I sniff.

"Not directly."

I laugh, and it comes out as a sob. "Haymitch, I thought we were both going to-"

"Hey," he cuts me off, "it's okay, we're okay. Pull yourself together." I take a couple of shaky breaths, try and focus on Haymitch, alive, with me. "You good?"

"Mmm," I reply, and he lets go of me.

"I guess that's the best I'm going to get." He fixes my hair, smoothing the curls he had disturbed.

"How are the two lovebirds?" I ask, wiping my eyes carefully so as not to smudge my make-up.

"Both determined for the other one to be victor, which is making my life difficult."

"Do they know about…?" Obviously, I'm not going to mention the escape plan out loud.

"Of course not."

"They're going to hate you," I say softly, "when they find out you're lying to them."

"However mad they get at me, it can't possibly outmatch the amount of loathing I have for myself," he assures me. "Nobody hates me better than me."

"Words of wisdom." He smirks. "I'd better go, I won't keep you from them."

"You going to turn up before the Games begin?"

"Couldn't keep me away." I kiss his cheek. "Night, Haymitch."

"Don't do anything stupid," he calls after me as I turn and walk away.

"Wouldn't dream of it!"


	41. Chapter 41

It's the day after the training scores are released that I next end up at the Training Centre. I shield my eyes from the early afternoon sun as I take the floor up to the penthouse, but for once I don't plan on staying there for long.

"Where're your tributes?" I ask Cinna, leaning out of the elevator with one hand on the doors to stop them closing. He's sat at the dining table with Effie and Portia.

Haymitch emerges from his room, hair slightly damp from showering. "Roof. They want to be alone, it's just too _hard _for them."

I snort. They have only been victors a year, and barely know anyone else apart from their mentor. They want it hard? They should try being Finnick, or Gallia- or even their own mentor, who has to support them against people he's known for years.

"Well, too bad for them. Everyone's gathered on Eleven for a last supper type thing."

"Alcohol?" he asks.

"No doubt the fountains are running red and grape flavoured," I reply. Effie rolls her eyes, and Cinna hides a smile behind his hand.

"I'm sold. Who is 'everyone', anyway?"

It turns out to be every single tribute and mentor in the Capitol save Katniss and Peeta, as well as a few of the more trusted escorts and stylists. The Avoxes have been dismissed for the evening and instead Seeder has ordered a small mountain of food that is now sitting on the dining room table, which I gravitate to immediately. Too hungry to bother with cutlery, I start inhaling whatever I can lay my hands on.

"When was the last time you ate?" Haymitch asks me.

"Yesterday morning. People don't think eating is attractive, apparently," I tell him through a mouthful of bread. "Ooh, cheese."

"You don't say."

I try to reply scathingly, but all that comes out is "mmfrrmmfrruh."

He starts laughing at me, and I struggle to clear my mouth.

"Gosh," I say, "swallowing is hard when you've got a mouthful."

"I thought you'd be pretty good at it after fifteen years of your lifestyle," he says.

I'm in too much of a good mood to be properly offended. Still- "No more sex jokes," I say, punching his shoulder, "or you won't be getting laid for the foreseeable future."

"Only thing that could convince me not to keep making them," he quips, rubbing his arm, and I grin through a mouthful of chicken.

Once I've filled the void in my stomach, and Haymitch has got through half a bottle of wine, we split up- he goes to find Chaff, and I spot Johanna on the other side of the room. She doesn't appear to be bothered by the large gathering of people, or at least that's what I can tell from what she's wearing. Or rather, what she isn't- all she's got on is her underclothes, with a loose unbuttoned shirt over the top.

"Nice to see you've made an effort," I say, grabbing at her waist from behind.

She turns and grins. Her skin is tan and her muscles tight beneath them, and I remember how they felt moving against my own. "More than I've worn in a while. Abernathy told you about my scare tactic yet?" I shake my head, and Finnick wanders over.

"She keeps getting naked," he informs me. "From what I heard, first time was after the chariots. She got in the elevator with Twelve and decided to liven up the ride a little bit."

"I stripped in training quite a bit, too," she adds.

"Uh, not that I don't wish I had seen it, but- why?"

"Much better manoeuvrability without clothes," she explains, "good for wrestling."

"You weren't wrestling in the elevator," I point out. "At least, I hope not."

"Oh, no. That was just to freak out Everdeen," she says, and I laugh.

I slowly begin to notice that nobody is mentioning the Games themselves, the rebellion even less so. Of course, the latter can be explained by the presence of the Career districts and unaware Capitolites, but I expect it is more that the day will be a lot easier if everyone just forgets why they are here. Because of that I don't ask Johanna and Finnick how they are feeling about being reaped, and the conversation remains lighthearted-

"Hey, slut."

It appears I spoke- or thought- too soon.

"Gloss." I plaster a smile on my face as he stalks into view. "Nice to see you."

"Has your ego recovered from your little sister volunteering to save your finely toned backside yet?" Finnick asks, and I wince.

"She's not going in there to save me," he snaps.

"Oh, so she thinks she can beat you. I guess that's _so _much better." Finnick raises his eyebrow at him, and Johanna sniggers.

He narrows his eyes at the younger, prettier, more popular tribute. "I'd tell you to go fuck yourself, Odair, but most of the Capitol's done that for you already."

I sigh. "We don't want to fight with you, Gloss," I intercede, standing between them. "Just leave, will you?"

He leans in and sneers in my face, and I get a stab of residual fear as a memory of Gleam doing the same thing in the Games flashes across my retinas.

"You're a filthy whore," he reminds me, "nothing more, nothing less."

I stand my ground. "Yeah," I say, "I am. Find something else to get mad about."

He gives me a contemptuous look, and storms away.

"Charming. District One really aren't top of the league for intellectual capacity, are they?" Finnick muses as he walks off.

Johanna hisses through her teeth. "He's gagging for a punch, that one."

"Leave it, Jo. I've had worse. Speaking of-" I add as Haymitch and Chaff wander over to us, along with Seeder, Mags and a woman whose name I think is Cecelia. "How's the alcohol?"

"Slight woody undertones, but not unpleasant," says Chaff, who has his arm draped over Haymitch's shoulder. "An excellent vintage, overall."

"Do you understand any of what you're saying?" I ask him.

"Nope," he replies, and roars with laughter.

"I think you might have had too much to drink," Seeder says, holding out her hand for the bottle they are sharing.

Haymitch clutches it to his chest like it's his firstborn, and stares at Seeder in horror. "I would _never_ hand over a wine of such class to a _heathen_ like you," he says, and Chaff wheezes.

"I feel for you Seeder," Cecelia smiles, "I really do."

"Haymitch Abernathy," her voice is stern, "hand me the bottle, _now._"

"Can't make me." Presumably to help, Chaff wraps his arms around Haymitch and shields him from Seeder with his own body.

Mags shakes her head, but she's fighting back a laugh.

"You're embarrassing yourself," Seeder continues.

"Oh, no Abernathy, carry on," says Johanna. "This is hilarious."

"We are supported in our cause!" Chaff whoops victoriously.

"Fine." Seeder puts her hands on her hips. "If that's what you want."

Slowly, suspiciously, Chaff and Haymitch uncurl themselves from each other. Then Seeder's hand shoots out like a snake and yanks the bottle from the latter's grasp. Haymitch stares at his hand for a few seconds as he figures out what just happened, then scowls at Seeder.

"Not fair. You abused our trust, woman."

"I demand you give us it back as compensation for damaging our relationship," says Chaff. "Twenty years of mentoring together, Seeder. _Twenty years_."

"You'd be lucky."

Haymitch shrugs, wanders away and comes back with an unopened bottle, before levering the cork out with his knife.

Seeder shakes her head. "Unbelievable," she says, but she's laughing.

A while later I notice Gallia and her male tribute counterpart are stood alone in the corner, the noise and amount of people clearly too much for them. There's a console piano tucked away in the corner of the room as there is on every floor, often not noticed because it is generally used as another table. I walk over to her, take her hand (she in turn grabs her partner) and I lead her towards it, perched on the edge of the wide bench so there is room for both of them.

"Thought you needed rescuing," I say.

"Mmm." She stares at the oak frame, and grinds her teeth.

"You know how to play?" I ask her, and she shakes her head. "Here, I'll show you." I place my pale fingers over her own yellow ones, my tattoo almost indistinguishable. "Each white key is one of seven notes, and the black ones are flats and sharps- they're pitched between the white ones. So, this one-" I hold her finger above a black key- "is either B flat or A sharp, because those are the notes on either side of it." I press down, and a note plays softly. Gallia's face lights up, and I smile. She takes her free hand and guides her partner's fingers to the same note on a lower octave.

It's not that I want to be doing this- I can hear the laughter of more able-minded tributes behind me and I desperately want to be among them- but I couldn't bear to leave these two alone, not when they are most likely going to be dead in less than a week. It's the same impulse that made me want to protect the outlying districts when I first entered the Games, instead of just going in there alone without being restricted by having to protect people. I am a self-appointed guardian of those weaker than myself.

I teach the Six tributes a couple of simple chords and melodies, then leave them to the piano. I hadn't noticed, but Haymitch has been leaning against a nearby wall, watching me.

"Why'd you do that?" he asks me as I take my place next to him, watching Gallia fumble over the keys.

I shrug. "They looked scared on their own."

He runs his thumb around the rim of his bottle. "And that's it?"

"Why else would I?"

"Well last I heard, you disowned your father for being a morphling addict and you haven't talked to him for over a decade." The alcohol has removed his filter, I reckon, because I'm sure he wouldn't be cruel enough to bring that up otherwise. "Looks like a guilty conscience to me."

"Yeah? Well, it's not," I retort. "And my father died six years ago, Haymitch. I didn't tell you because I didn't give a damn, he meant _nothing _to me and still doesn't. And is it so hard to believe that I can help people because maybe I'm just a decent bloody person?" I cut myself off before my voice becomes too loud. I sigh, and run a hand through my hair.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"Don't worry about it. Just slow down on the liquor, alright?" He doesn't resist as I take the bottle away from him. "I like you better conscious."

"I don't," he says.

"Oh, come on. This is our last good day, remember? Enjoy it. Revel in your free time not having to worry about your lovestruck tributes."

"Oh," he says, "I am _so _beyond worrying about them. I left worrying in the dust a year ago. There's not even a word for the amount of stress those two cause me."

"Kids," I sigh, "what can you do?"

I catch his eye, and we both crack up.

%

By about one in the morning, there's only six of us left. Chaff, Seeder and Haymitch are sprawled across the sofa, I'm on the floor leaning against the latter's shins, Johanna's head is in my lap and Finnick has got his legs wrapped around her torso. When Mags had left twenty minutes ago, she pointed out that her grandchildren sat with more decorum than we do. Two generations of victors, neatly separated by a couch.

"So no," Chaff concludes, "I would not rate it as a desirable vacation experience. The cannibalism really put a dampener on the whole thing, y'know?" He upends a bottle of wine and drains it as I howl with laughter. Chaff is the only victor I know who can not only recount his Games without it seeming painful for him, but also make them funny in retrospect.

"I'll drink to that," says Johanna. "Where's alcohol?"

"We've run out," says Seeder.

"How? How could that have possibly happened?"

Haymitch whistles innocently.

"Fuck you and your vices, Abernathy," she says, and I pat her face in a consolatory manner.

"I'm allowed them," he says. "Not only am I both emotionally and physically scarred by a childhood event that tore apart my entire life, my only surviving tributes are a fucking _couple_, and I have to deal with them either groping or bitching at each other, or about each other to _me_, at all hours of the day. Why the hell do they think I know how to handle a relationship?"

"He doesn't," I inform everyone. "He's terrible at romance in any form."

"I _am._ I don't have a clue how this-" he waves a hand at me- "happened."

"Seconded," I say, undoing the pattern I was weaving into Johanna's hair and starting again.

"At least neither of you are going into whatever Heavensbee has planned for us," says Finnick, turning a gold bangle over and over in his hands. Haymitch had given it to him earlier in the evening, though as to why I have no idea.

"Oh, yeah," I reply. "We just have to watch helplessly as you lot fight to the death." The subject is somber, but nobody is particularly serious. "That's going to be fun, that is."

"A laugh a minute," says Haymitch drily. "Try not to die too quickly."

"We'll do our best," says Seeder. "We should probably get some sleep; big day tomorrow."

"Always the mother," remarks Chaff, kissing her cheek.

"I don't want to move," I groan. I can't remember the last time I was so comfortable. And moving means admitting that the day is over, and returning to the world of the Games.

"Nobody'll notice if I don't turn up to the interviews tomorrow, right?" Johanna asks. "It's not like I'm popular or anything. I'll just have a nap under this coffee table until the Games start and I'm allowed to start sticking my axe in people's heads again."

"We've all got to have something to look forward to," says Haymitch. He slips a hand beneath my head as he stands, so I don't fall back. "Night."

"Haymitch?" calls Seeder as he staggers away.

"What?"

"The elevator's the other way. That's Chaff's bedroom."

"So it is." He spins round.

"Looks like you've got some competition," Finnick mutters, and I laugh.

"I'll fight you for him, One."

"Honestly Eleven, you're welcome to him." I rise myself, go to follow him and Johanna to the elevator, but pause when Seeder calls my name.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Sure." She nods, and her and Chaff disappear round a corner, leaving me with the two younger tributes. I turn to Finnick. "Make sure he ends up on level twelve."

"Sure." The corner of his mouth curls. "This could be the last time I ever talk to you."

"I doubt it, pretty boy," I say, and pull him into a hug. There's no way he's not going to survive the Games long enough to be rescued because he's so popular, but if the impossible happens it's better to be safe than sorry, and not saying goodbye to another lost friend might kill me. "Look after yourself and Mags."

"Yeah. And if I don't make it out-"

"You will," I reassure him, but he carries on regardless.

"Find Annie for me, will you? Tell her I'm sorry."

I meet his eyes, eyes that look so remarkably beautiful framed by long eyelashes, like jade in a gold setting. "Of course I will."

"I couldn't have got through all of… everything without you."

I shrug. "I've been a bit of a burden on you myself."

"We'll call it quits, then." He kisses my cheek and follows Haymitch to the elevator. Johanna hangs back, arms folded.

"Don't even think about it-" she says, but I ignore her and wrap my arms around her anyway, and she barely even resists.

"Try not to kill the Mockingjay," I whisper.

"Fine," she replies. Her arms are still tightly folded against her chest. "Denna?"

"Yeah?"

She holds me at arm's length, drinking in my appearance. "Hypothetically, if you and Abernathy hadn't-"

"Life's too short for ifs and buts," I tell her. It's a lesson I learned early on, because otherwise I would have driven myself mad thinking of what I could have done to save my allies in the Arena. "But just this once, I'll make an exception."

I kiss her gently, and I feel her muscles melt as she leans into me. It's over quickly but I linger for a moment, my forehead resting against hers.

"You are a mad and wonderful person, Johanna Mason," I say.

She grins. "Could say the same about you, Denna Lazuli." She kisses me one last time and walks away with none of her usual swagger.

I allow myself five seconds to let emotion overcome me, then wipe my eyes and walk round to the dining table where Chaff and Seeder are stood.

"We want to thank you," says Seeder. "For everything you've done for Eleven."

I shake my head. "It was nothing, I could never-" she holds up a hand and I stop.

"You tried, my dear, and that is all you can do sometimes. Willow and Ash would be proud of you."

I bite down on the knuckles of my right hand as a lump rises in my throat. Seeder walks forward and gently pulls my hand down, cradling my face in her hands. "And so are we."

"Thank you," I whisper, because I don't trust my voice. She brushes the tears away from my face with her thumb, nods once, then walks away silently.

Chaff steps forward and extends his stump. I laugh weakly, clasp it with my bionic hand, and shake. "You did good, girl."

"Thanks. I'm sorry I couldn't save any of your tributes."

"Like Seeder said- you tried. And you've stopped my best friend from drinking himself to death, which is damn impressive."

"That was as much you as me, Chaff. Actually, I probably made him worse."

"You're not as much of a failure as you think you are, One. Thick as two short planks, obviously, but you mean well and it works out some. Look at all these people- you think you were only ever a burden on them? That you never helped them?"

"I-"

"Your life is not a waste, Denna. Don't forget it."

He wraps his good arm around me, ruffles my hair and walks away – "I need to find a nightcap down at that bar," he says, and I laugh snottily. He's right, although I am only just realizing it, for the first time in my life- I am not a waste of space, I should be alive. Even if I am thick as two short planks.

It feels wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, I find that I am crying, stood in the middle of the empty 11 suite with sobs threatening to full-out wrack my body. I don't want to end my evening like this. I count to 100, losing count around sixty and having to start again, before finally going to the elevator and pressing the button for the roof instead of the lobby. When I'm in the Training Centre, it's like I'm hiding from the Capitol, from my day-to-day life. I don't want to go back to my life just yet.

I step outside into a surprisingly cool breeze, and as I wrap my arms around myself I hear faint, familiar voices over the sound of the wind chimes. I peer round the little dome I just came out of and see Chaff and Haymitch. I guess that this is a private conversation, so instead of just marching forth I hover out of sight and pretend I can't hear what they're saying.

"Listen," says Chaff, sounding uncharacteristically serious, "you need to win this, Abernathy. You hear me?"

"Don't," Haymitch shoots back at him. "Don't –"

"What? Act like I know what's going to happen?" Chaff asks wryly.

"You don't. You could still make this."

"Brother, look at me." Chaff takes Haymitch's shoulder in his hand and presses their foreheads together. "You gotta win this, alright?"

"Chaff –"

"Shut up. You need to get those kids free of… this. We ain't the ones who matter, not anymore."

Haymitch sighs heavily. "Damn you for being right," he says, "and damn you for getting reaped, too."

"Who's the smart one now, huh?" Chaff leans back and cuffs Haymitch lightly around the face. "Cheers for getting drunk with me."

"Thanks for buying my first drink," Haymitch retorts, and I circle back around the dome so that they don't see me as they head for the door.

"Yeah, well. Seeder wasn't very happy when she found out your vice was my fault."

"You saved me from the morphlings, at least," Haymitch points out, and Chaff laughs. They've paused by the balcony, and although I can no longer see them I hear the stopper being pulled from a bottle. "Poor bastards."

"Your girl seems to like them."

"That's Denna for you, though. And she's not my girl, Chaff. Don't pin that on me."

"Whatever." They're moving again now, headed back inside the building. "What did you do to deserve her, huh?"

"Saved her life. Much to both our chagrin…" the door closes behind them and I lose the conversation completely.

I find myself stood at the balcony, leaning out as far as I can without the forcefield throwing me back. "It's not fair," I murmur, my voice whipped away by the wind and the sound of the chimes. "It's not _fair!_"

Chaff and Haymitch have been dependent on each other for longer than I can remember. You don't call someone your brother for no reason, after all. They should not have to say goodbye. Not on top of every other stupid bloody thing they have been put through. They deserve better than this.

And that's why Chaff said what he said, I think. Because it's too late for those of us who have been stuck in this machine for years, but the young ones, Katniss and Peeta and the kids lucky enough not to have been reaped – we can still save them. This is not a war we fight for ourselves, but for our children, and our children's children.

The Mockingjay and the baker's boy need to survive these Games, they need to get to Thirteen and they need to destroy everything Snow has worked so hard to maintain. Because while it's too late for Haymitch and Chaff, for Gallia and Seeder and Finnick and all the rest of us, they still have a tomorrow worth living for.

I don't even want my tomorrow. I can give it up, if it means that they will have their own.

**A/N a behemoth of a chapter. After this - plus the epilogue and appendix - there's only two left, which is crazy to think I've been uploading this since 2014. Thank you mathgirl92, melliemoo, quicksilvergold, elliecrawford1605, awayshegoes, Mezuri and blackcat711 for your reviews, and HOLY WOW we've passed 200 follows AND 100 reviews. I love you all.**


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